


You And I

by pocketmumbles (livelikejack)



Series: Derek/Scott Mythology Trifecta [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Small Town, M/M, Orpheus and Eurydice Myth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:32:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2603648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livelikejack/pseuds/pocketmumbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But there’s something about Scott, something about the way he sits on that wobbly stool like it’s the finest of thrones and banters easily with the crowd. The fact that some of the crowd actually banters back is astonishing.</p><p>Derek watches Scott lead the bar in an admittedly impressive cover of “Bad Romance,” smile lighting up the room, and thinks, <em>Huh</em>.</p><p>(Or, the modern-day small town/rock star Greek Mythology AU where Scott is Orpheus and Derek is Eurydice. The first chapter is the entire fic; second chapter is the same story but with an alternate ending where Derek lives.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Original Version

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of my Scerek Mythology Trifecta, or a series of three Greek Mythology stories that are completely unrelated but can be interpreted in a past lives sort of connection if you want.
> 
> The story of Orpheus and Eurydice, which is a quite sad one. Please check the **Major Character Death** warning. The entire point of this myth is that Eurydice (meaning Derek) dies. Please read up on the myth if you're not sure what you're getting into.
> 
> As stated in the summary, the first chapter is the entire fic; the second chapter is the same fic, but with an alternate ending where Derek lives. It still has a bittersweet ending, but it is overall happier than the first version, which stays true to myth.
> 
> Originally posted on [Tumblr](http://pocketlass.tumblr.com/post/97332851652/you-and-i-part-1).

_“Dude! I can’t wait to go to Scott McCall’s Never Look Back Tour! It’s gonna be so epic!”_

_“You’re gonna love it. He’s an amazing performer.”_

_“Like, last time I saw him live I swear he looked_ right _at me when he was singing D_ _♭_ _.”_

_“Dude, don’t. Everyone always says that. He’s never actually looking at you. In fact, the way stages are lit compared to the audience, it’s-”_

_“Shut up! You’re just jealous that you’ve never heard D_ _♭_ _live.”_

_“Okay, true, true. You think he’s gonna play it when we go see him?”_

_“Please. It’s always his last encore song. You remember that Live In Mexico DVD when he played ‘Tattoo’ for his encore instead, and the entire arena chanted for D_ _♭_ _until he came back out? They didn’t stop screaming until a roadie found him the right guitar.”_

_“D_ _♭_ _is legendary, man. He’ll definitely play it for his encore. I mean, he has so many good songs-”_

_“-Tattoo (Open Wound)-”_

_“-Nebraska-”_

_“-Toy Horse-”_

_“-Gettin’ Your Juice, that’s always a classic-”_

_“-dude, Stiles, can’t forget Stiles-”_

_“-Riversticks -”_

_“-oh my god,_ Riversticks _-”_

_“-but D_ _♭_ _is…it’s just. Man.”_

_“You know a song’s good when it wasn’t even a single and it’s still everywhere.”_

_“Man, not even that, it was a fucking hidden track on_ The Wait. _Why would you fucking hide a track that good?”_

_“I cry every time I listen to it.”_

_“Every damn time.”_

_“I heard they actually play it on the radio_ less _because it makes people cry so much.”_

_“Dude, stop believing everything you read on the internet. But if you think it’s amazing on your headphones or the TV, just wait ‘till you’re there live.”_

_“When you see him perform, oh man. Oh man.”_

_“So pumped for the tour. It’s gonna be amazing.”_

 

* * *

 

When Derek first sees Scott McCall, he thinks, _Huh_.

He’s seen plenty of earnest young musicians sitting on that rickety old stool during Open Mic Night, and they all blend together inoffensively in his head. _Riversticks_ isn’t known for its musical talent – Derek isn’t really sure what his bar’s known for at all, aside from living underneath a weirdly successful scarf boutique – so he never expects anything special. Just someone who can sit there, pluck out some notes, and sing mostly in key.

Scott can definitely sing. His voice is clear with a little growl to it, and he doesn’t flub a single note through his entire set. He’s talented, for sure. But there’s something about him, something about the way he sits on that wobbly stool like it’s the finest of thrones and banters easily with the crowd. The fact that some of the crowd actually banters back is astonishing. Usually, they flat-out ignore whoever traipses in for Open Mic Night (and then whine to Derek about the lack of Open Mic Night when he cancels it due to perceived lack of interest). Derek watches Scott lead the bar in an admittedly impressive cover of “Bad Romance,” smile lighting up the room, and thinks, _Huh_.

“Sounds like you’re a little stuck on this guy,” Isaac says. He hangs up new scarves around the boutique in no particular order that Derek can tell, frowning critically at a display before arranging it into an even more clashing color scheme. “So what’s so special about him?”

“I dunno,” Derek says. “He’s a talented musician, I guess.”

“Is he hot?”

Derek jerks and knocks over a stand. “What?” he says. “I don’t know; I don’t pay attention to that.”

“Mm-hm,” Isaac says, watching Derek pick up the scarves instead of actually helping him. “So he’s _really_ hot. You should go for it.”

“Go for – I’m not going for _anything_ ,” Derek says. He hangs the last scarf back up. They’re probably arranged completely wrong, but Isaac doesn’t seem to care. “He’s just a nice guy who played at the bar once. I’ll probably never see him again.”

“Sure thing,” Isaac says agreeably. “What was his name again?”

“Scott McCall,” he says without thinking, and then mentally curses. Isaac cackles.

 

Derek’s finally managed to forget about Scott McCall when he shows up a week later for Open Mic Night.

(That’s a lie. He hasn’t forgotten about him at all. There may or may not already be a new drink on the specials board called _S &M_. Braeden had added the ampersand to make the whole thing, in her words, “slightly less pathetic.” He resolutely does not look at the drink or at Scott walking in with his cheery smile and guitar in hand.)

“I’ll take that one,” Erica says, pointing at the special as she sits at the bar. “It looks like it has a lot of alcohol, and I’ll probably need it to suffer through your Open Mic Night.”

“I’ve tried canceling Open Mic Night _five times_ ,” Derek says, handing the drink over with a sigh. “Every single time I do, you all complain until I bring it back.”

“Well, that’s just them,” Erica says airily.

“You complain more than everyone else combined,” he points out. “Which is saying a lot.”

“Rude. I do _not_ complain more than Isaac.” She leans an elbow on the bar, turning her body towards the stage as Scott sets up. “Ten bucks says he cracks a note on his first song.”

“He’s really good, actually,” Derek says. “I mean, uh.”

“Derek Hale!” Erica exclaims, pressing a hand to her chest in feigned surprise. “You actually _remember_ this one? Who is he?”

The microphone whines to life. “Hey guys, I’m Scott!”

Erica whirls around to stare at Derek, eyes wide with glee. “No,” Derek says immediately.

“I didn’t even say anything,” Erica pouts. Then, “Now I see why you named a drink after him.”

“I did _not_.”

She sips her S&M primly. “Sure thing, Derek.”

 

The thing is, Scott is _really_ talented. Like, ridiculously so. Erica loves to tear apart the Open Mic Night performances while Derek closes up the bar for the night, but the only criticism she can muster up for Scott McCall is that he plays too many Lady Gaga covers.

“What’s wrong with Lady Gaga?” Derek asks. “Besides, he puts really interesting spins on them.” He really likes Scott’s take on “You and I,” and it has everything to do with his acoustic arrangement and nothing to do how it looked like Scott had winked at him when he’d crooned, _Nebraska_.

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with Gaga,” Erica says. “It’s just…I’d put more diversity in my set, is all.”

“There’s always something with you, Erica,” Derek sighs. “He’s really good, isn’t he?”

“He really is,” she says. “He shouldn’t be playing lukewarm crowds at small-town bars – no offense, Derek – he should be playing real venues with crowds that actually want to be there.”

“Not stadiums and arenas?”

She tilts her beer bottle at him. “Gotta crawl before you can walk, Derek.”

He nods and finishes wiping down the bar before walking Erica up to her apartment because she forgot her keys, like always.

 

The next week, Erica abandons Derek at the bar in favor of sitting at Scott’s table and chatting with him about his set. Scott listens to her advice carefully, nodding earnestly even when Cora butts in to contradict every single one of Erica’s notes. He starts bringing a keyboard instead of his guitar, sometimes, and occasionally a friend accompanying him on the box drum or, for some reason, the melodica. (It’s a perfect fit for his song, “Stiles,” but it’s still kind of weird.) He gets the crowd to follow his lead in eighth note handclaps and sings along to their beat – they fall apart hopelessly two minutes in, which is two minutes longer than Derek expected them to last, but Scott still manages to finish the song, anyway.

(Derek may or may not download his EP on iTunes and run up his play count to an embarrassing number. There are triple digits. He isn’t proud.)

After two months of Scott coming in like clockwork for Open Mic Night and playing progressively better sets to an increasingly interested (and increasing, period) crowd, Derek gets Cora to make a few changes to the sign-up board. Scott walks in at his usual time, makes his usual rounds chatting with the regulars, and then has a very short, very confused conversation with Cora at the board before making a beeline to the bar. “What did I do?”

Derek looks up in surprise. “Huh?”

“Oh, sorry, hi, I’m Scott,” Scott says. “Um, Cora said I’m not allowed to sign up for Open Mic Night anymore, so, uh…what did I do?”

Derek sighs. “Did Cora actually show you the board?”

“Uh, no?”

Of course she didn’t. Derek sighs again. “You’re on the board. Go check it.”

Scott leaves, still looking confused, and comes running back a few minutes later. “You gave me my own slot.” Derek nods. “With extra time.” He nods again. “Uh, doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of _Open_ Mic Night?”

“Well, technically, you’re on _after_ Open Mic Night,” Derek says. “There’s still the same amount of slots as before, and most of the crowd’s here for you, anyway.” He nods at the nearly-packed tables. “Figured you could use the extra time.”

“Oh,” Scott says, at a loss for words. “Thank you. You didn’t have to…I really appreciate it.”

“You’re really talented,” Derek says, shrugging. “If you really wanted it, I know you could make it big.” Scott just keeps gaping at him wordlessly, so Derek adds, “Besides, I miss hearing your Lady Gaga covers.”

Scott laughs, surprised. “Yeah? Which one’s your favorite?”

Erica insists that his “Paparazzi” cover is the best, but Derek says, “You and I.”

“Me, too,” Scott says with a smile. He blinks. “Oh, hey! I don’t think I ever properly introduced myself. I’m-”

“Scott McCall,” Derek finishes, nodding.

“Yeah,” he says, and cringes. “I am so sorry. I’m about to look like the biggest jerk right now, but…I can’t remember your name.”

Derek smirks down at the glass in his hand. “That’s because I never told you it.”

“Oh, thank god,” Scott says, slumping over the bar in relief. Derek bursts into laughter. “It’s not funny! I feel like such a jerkoff when I forget people’s names!”

“Okay, I’m sorry I laughed,” Derek says. “I’m Derek, by the way. Derek Hale.”

“Derek Hale,” Scott repeats, lips curving into a smile. “Now that’s a name I’ll never forget.”

He plays “You and I” at the end of his set. And he _definitely_ winks at Derek when he sings, _Nebraska_. Derek grins down at the bar and tries to ignore the way the tips of his ears burn.

 

Derek has no idea how _Moira’s Threads_ manages to be so successful when it’s only run by three people and he barely ever sees anyone actually shopping there, but he doesn’t think about it too much. Besides, whenever they _do_ get a customer, they send them down to Derek’s for a drink, which is nice of them. (They usually end up ordering Mind Erasers, for some reason. Derek supposes he would need that after dealing with Isaac’s customer service, too.) Derek’s tried sending some of his customers upstairs to return the favor, but apparently it’s pretty weird when your bartender tries to recommend scarves to you.

They’re nice people. Well, Boyd is nice. He comes down and helps Derek bartend during happy hour, sometimes, and he always mixes drinks with perfect proportions, no matter how complicated the recipe. He’s also established some sort of silent camaraderie with Cora, which is probably half the reason Derek likes Boyd so much. He spends most of his breaks hanging out in the boutique’s back room, eating lunch while Boyd sketches out new designs for Erica to make.

(Isaac is apparently not allowed to so much as touch the products until they’re completely finished. Derek can only guess that he’s even worse at knitting than Cora, who once created a foot-long scarf comprised entirely of knots.)

Erica and Isaac…well, they mean well. He’s gotten used to Erica pounding on the back door because she’s forgotten her keys again, and Isaac continually attempting to do tricks with Derek’s empty bottles despite dropping them every single time. He just knows to never leave them unsupervised for too long, ever since that time he went to the bathroom and came back to find them pouring several bottles of liquor onto the bar and lighting it on fire whilst screaming about a “flaming river.” (Cora thought it was hilarious. Braeden gave them the matches. Derek needs a better staff.)

So Derek is understandably concerned when, while eating lunch in the back room with Boyd, he hears Isaac starting up his Aladdin spiel with a customer out front. It’s the one he tends to use when he’s trying to weird someone out enough to leave. “Should we go help him?” Derek asks, not entirely sure if he’s referring to Isaac or to his male-sounding customer.

Boyd shrugs and eats another handful of chips. “Nah. It’s always entertaining.” Derek has no idea how they manage to turn a profit when Isaac scares away at least half of their customers, but, whatever. It’s not his store.

“I can show you the world,” Isaac shouts, and Derek snorts as he pictures him throwing his arms wide. “Shining, shimmering, splendid.”

To Derek’s surprise, the customer replies, “Tell me princess, now when did you last let your heart decide?” and that’s the only warning they get before two launch into a duet of “A Whole New World.”

“That’s new,” Boyd says, not sounding surprised at all. Isaac’s singing voice is screechy and at least three times worse than Derek’s heard him before, but the customer’s is smooth and clear and awfully familiar. Derek’s eyes widen, and he scuttles behind the desk while Boyd raises a judgmental eyebrow at him. “That’s Scott!” he hisses.

“Yeah, I know,” Boyd says. “Cora sent him up here.”

Derek tries to sit up, and only succeeds in banging his head on the bottom of the desk. “Cora did what now?”

“Sent him up here,” Boyd repeats. “Since you always ignore him when he comes by the bar.”

“I do not-” Boyd raises his eyebrow. “I talked to him once!” Boyd raises his other eyebrow. “I’m just busy; it’s not like I do it on purpose.”

“And now you’re _not_ busy,” Boyd says. “Hence Cora sending him up here.”

“But _why?_ ” he asks, whining so hard his voice actually cracks.

Boyd stares at him. “Derek,” he says finally, “You are way too old for that sort of noise to be coming out of your mouth.”

The door flings open, and Isaac pokes his head in. Or, Derek guesses that Isaac pokes his head in, but he can’t actually see because he’s ducked back under the desk. “He’s the one! I’m keeping him forever! Why are you hiding under the desk, Derek?”

“I wasn’t – I dropped something,” Derek says, crawling out from under the desk.

“Yeah, your dignity,” Boyd says, and doesn’t even have the decency to mutter it under his breath. Derek takes back every nice thing he ever said about him. He waves lamely at Scott, who leans in the doorway with Isaac half draped over him. “Uh. Hi.”

“Hi, Derek!” Scott says, giving a dorky little wave. Derek tries and fails to not find it endearing. “Uh, you were always busy when I came by the bar, but then Cora said you might be up here, so I, uh. I was wondering if. Um.”

“Actually, I was just about to head back down,” Derek says. “My break’s over.”

“Oh,” Scott says. He nods at the floor. “Oh. Yeah, gotcha, sorry about that, I’ll leave you alone. Nice meeting you, Isaac!” he says quickly, and all but flees out of the back room.

Derek hesitates for a split second before he yells, “Scott, wait!” He hurries into the store (Isaac flattens himself dramatically against the doorframe as he runs by) and catches Scott at the front door. “It’s pretty slow downstairs right now,” he says. “If you don’t mind hanging out at a bar.”

Scott turns slowly, hands jammed into his pockets. “Won’t your boss mind me being there?”

“I own the bar.”

“Oh,” Scott says. “Oh!” He pulls his hands out of his pockets, grinning. “Yeah, I’d like that, then.”

Derek smiles and opens the door. “After you.”

 

It doesn’t take Derek long to realize that Scott McCall is the best thing to ever happen to him.

It still takes him long enough to not realize until right before he loses him.

It’s nothing dramatic, on either side of things. It’s Scott clambering onto a bar stool to kiss him over the counter at work, and it’s walking hand in hand across town to Scott’s apartment. It’s scrambled eggs in the morning and the wrath of Scott’s roommate when he drinks the last of the milk. It’s sweet smiles from _Riversticks’_ tiny stage, and bringing Cora’s fish tacos to Scott at the nursery where he works. It’s going to Scott’s shows at real venues in the city, helping move amps and talking his drummer down from pre-show jitters.

It’s hearing “Stiles” on the radio and immediately putting Scott on speakerphone to hear it, too. It’s kissing away his bashful smile when the song starts to climb the rock charts, and sexiling Scott’s roommate, the actual Stiles, to celebrate when it cracks the Hot 100, and then again when it soars to the top of the charts. It’s Scott leaving for the summer to play Warped Tour, and it’s going to the nearest tour date and watching Scott from the crowd, and it’s getting in the end of line at his signing tent and Scott kissing him silly when he finally sees him.

It’s Scott telling him, hesitantly, that he got signed, that he’s moving to LA, that he doesn’t know when he’ll be back.

It’s Derek choosing to let him go instead of weighing him down.

It’s driving him to the airport, and wrapping the infinity scarf that Boyd and Erica made especially for him around his neck, and slipping a note into his pocket as he kisses him one last time.

_When you come back, I’ll be here waiting._

Scott McCall is the best thing that ever happened to Derek, and he’ll always love him. But part of loving is knowing when to let go.

 

* * *

 

_“…And that was Scott McCall with the eponymous single off his album,_ Nebraska _. Eponymous, that means named after. I just gave you all a vocabulary lesson. You’re welcome. Anyway, we’re all waiting patiently for Scott to finish his upcoming album, but I hear we’ll be getting a new song in the not-too-distant future-”_

Braeden turns the radio down. “Why do you listen to that stuff?”

“It’s Stiles,” Derek says. “We’re kind of friends; the least I could do is tune in for his show.”

“Not like he needs the support; he’s doing fine,” Braeden snorts. She swirls the ice in her glass. “You thought any more about Cora’s offer?”

“She’s got the new _Riversticks_ location all figured out, she’ll do fine.”

“Yeah, obviously, but I meant more in relation to you,” Braeden says. “And I don’t just mean you going down there to help with the hiring process. It’s been, what, two years? A change of pace could be good for you, Derek. Get out there in the big city. Soak up some sun. Meet new people.”

“I’m not interested. I like it here just fine.” Derek drops a straw into his newest concoction and pushes it across the counter to her. “What d’you think?”

She lifts the glass, eyeing its appearance. “It looks like a sunset,” she comments, then takes a sip. Her eyebrows shoot up. “ _Tastes_ like a sunset. Sweet, subtly fruity, and…warm, somehow. Not literally warm, but, cozy, you know?”

“Good.” He nods, scribbling on the specials board. “Good. That’s what I was going for.”

“What are you calling it?” Derek turns the board around for her to read. “Oh, _Derek_.”

He shrugs and hangs the board back up. “We should start setting up for Open Mic Night.”

She finishes the rest of the drink and brings it back to the kitchens. “Whatever you say, boss.”

He flips the lights on, illuminating the specials board inviting customers to try the _Nebraska_.

 

Halfway through Open Mic Night, Derek frowns at the sign-up board. “Braeden,” he asks, “why is there an extra slot at the bottom labeled ‘Special Guest?’”

“Because a special guest is coming in to play a set,” Braeden says, as if stating the obvious. She kind of is, but, still. “Boyd set it up.”

“Oh.” Well, if Boyd set it up, then they can’t be too bad. “Do I know them?”

“They’ve played here before?” Braeden says, shrugging vaguely.

That narrows it down to a few hundred people, only one of whom Derek ever really remembered. He sighs. “Well, is there anything I can help with?”

“Nope, it’s all settled!” Braeden chirps. “You just man the bar and keep the drinks flowing.” She starts to walk away, then turns back. “Oh, and, uh, we _might_ be getting a bigger audience when they show up, so. Gird your loins, or whatever.”

Well, at least now Derek understands why Boyd has been missing all night. Isaac slips away half an hour before the guest set with a cheery wink. “I’ll have two Radio Ladies, two S&Ms, and, ooh, and three Nebraskas, that one looks good,” Erica says as she slides onto her usual stool at the bar.

“Damn, is the special guest that bad?” Derek asks.

“They’re for Boyd and Isaac, too,” she huffs. “I’m just giving you the order now. Don’t forget a Stick-In-The-Mud for Boyd, dunno why he likes that one but it’s very _you_ , so. Oh, and hold off on that last Nebraska until right before the set. That one’s for the guest.”

“How do you even know they’ll want to try it?”

Erica leers at him. “Trust me. They will.”

Derek leans back. “Please tell me the special guest isn’t Stiles trying out his live DJ skills.”

Erica stares at him in shock, then bursts into laughter. “God, no,” she snorts. “No. I promise, Derek, it isn’t Stiles.”

“Well, good.” He relaxes a little. “You want me to start you off with a Radio Lady?”

“You know me too well,” Erica says, batting her eyelashes at him. “Don’t forget the bow on my straw!”

The special guest comes in through the back door, all but drowning in Boyd’s hoodie with sunglasses covering his face. He also brings two security guards stationed on either side of the tiny stage. “Erica,” Derek says, frowning, “Who the hell is…” His throat dries as the guest unzips Boyd’s hoodie, and. He knows that jaw, has traced it hundreds of times with his hands and his lips. He knows that mouth on his, that nose brushing his skin, those cheeks plumped in laughter. He knows that infinity scarf. He gave it to him, the last time he –

Erica slurps her Radio Lady innocently as Derek whirls to glare at her. “You _didn’t_.”

“Technically, Isaac did,” she says.

“Isaac never finishes something you didn’t start.”

“Well, okay, I kind of did. But it was his idea!”

Derek stares at her, because if he looks away he’ll stare at the stage instead, and he can’t. “Since when is _Isaac_ your idea guy?”

“No,” Erica says exasperatedly. “It wasn’t Isaac’s idea, it was-”

Scott McCall whips off his sunglasses and tosses them to his security guard. “Man, I feel like such a jerkoff wearing those indoors. And at night. Sorry about that.” He settles down on the rickety old stool with ease. “Hey guys, thanks for sticking around. I’m Scott.”

Erica carefully reaches forward and pulls a drink from Derek’s slack grip. “Now do you get why I had you make the drinks ahead of time?” Derek doesn’t answer, just tries to remember how to breathe or at least close his mouth as Scott quickly tunes his guitar, pointedly not looking towards the bar, and launches into “Stiles.”

The set passes in a blur. At some point, Erica manages to push him into a chair, and Isaac and Boyd show up to down the rest of the drinks, but Derek can’t focus on anything but Scott. He’s…more serious, now, with that calmly commanding stage presence that Derek’s seen on TV and computer screens. His hair is shorter, he’s more filled out, and he seems so relaxed even in the face of the now-packed bar. He looks…he looks happy. He looks _good_.

“Before I play this last song, I thought I’d let you guys know why I wanted to come here tonight,” Scott says, strumming his guitar idly. “I’ll be releasing a new song tomorrow-” he pauses as shrieks echo through the bar, “-but I wanted to play it here first. Because this song, it’s all about beginnings and coming full circle, and this place here is where it all began for me.

“A couple years ago, I was on this same stage, sitting on this same stool, singing to some of the same people I’m singing to tonight. This place, and everyone in it, is so important to me, and I wouldn’t be here without all of you.” Scott smiles out at the crowd. “So this song is for you. This is ‘Riversticks.’”

Derek sits numbly through the song. He watches as Scott stands at the end of the song, bows, and leaves out the back door with a last wave to the cheering crowd. He never looks Derek’s way, not even once. “Derek?” Erica asks carefully.

He starts, blinking out of his reverie. “That was good,” he says, tearing his gaze from the back door. “I, uh-”

The back door bursts open, and Scott jogs back onstage with his acoustic guitar in hand. “Sorry, I lied!” he chirps into the microphone. “ _This_ is the last song, for real this time. A lot of my friends don’t like this song, and I don’t know if it’s because I play it too much around them, or if it’s just a bad arrangement.” He shrugs. “But I don’t care, because I know there’s at least _one_ person on this planet who likes my cover of this song. Besides me, I mean,” he adds cheekily, and the crowd laughs. “Well, at least I hope they still do,” he says, quieter, then shakes his head and starts playing. Derek recognizes the chord progression instantly, and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush when Scott looks him straight in the eye and sings, “ _It’s been a long time since I came around, been a long time, but I’m back in town; this time, I’m not leaving without you._ ”

 

Scott doesn’t stay to talk to him after. Of course he can’t, not with the crowded bar and his security guards. He leaves through the front door, draws the crowd further down the street, and signs anything that his fans push in front of him. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac stay after closing to help him and Braeden clean up, but Derek sends them all home when it starts raining.

He wipes halfheartedly at the counter, then gives up and sits in the dimmed lights of the bar, staring down the last Nebraska while the rain pounds outside. Scott had stared at him through the entirety of “You And I.” He hadn’t looked away, not once, and the intensity of his gaze is seared into the backs of Derek’s eyelids. He’s about to get up and wash out the glass when knocks echo from the back door.

Derek sighs. At least they all live in the same building, so Erica didn’t get caught out in the rain traveling back here. “What did you forget now, Er-” he asks as he opens the door, then freezes when he finds himself staring at one completely soaked Scott McCall.

“She still forgets her stuff down here?” Scott asks, smiling hesitantly.

“All the time,” Derek says. He backs up to let Scott in. “Did you swim here?”

“Might as well have.” Scott peels off his soaked hoodie – it’s long on him, but not completely dwarfing, which means it’s probably Isaac’s – and struggles out of his shirt. Derek grabs one of Erica’s many forgotten jackets from the back room and wraps it around him. “Thanks.”

“What happened to your security guards?” Derek asks.

Scott rolls his eyes. “That was just for the show. I don’t get mobbed on the streets, you know; I’m not _that_ famous.”

“Yet.”

“You’ve got that much faith in me?” Scott asks with a snort.

Derek shrugs. “I always have.”

Scott smiles faintly. “Yeah. Yeah, you always did.” He notices the drink on the counter. “What’s that?”

“New drink I’m trying out.” He picks it up and, after a moment’s hesitation, holds it out to Scott. “You wanna try?”

“ _Always_ ,” Scott exclaims, bounding forward with a grin, and for a moment things feel like they did before: just the two of them in a darkened bar; Scott finding something nice to say about every new drink Derek offers him, even the terrible ones; Derek trying to clean up so they can leave while Scott steals whatever’s nearby to scribble down lyrics. The bridge for “Toy Horse” was born along the length of Derek’s arm, while he laughed at the tickle of Sharpie on skin and Scott fussed at him to hold still. Then Scott sets the glass down with a dull _clink_ , and Derek comes back to the present. “You made a drink for my song,” Scott says, face blank with confusion.

“I made a drink for your entire _album_.”

“I made an entire album for _you_.” Derek blinks, blown back by the force in his voice. “You’ve always been my Nebraska,” Scott continues, more softly. “Derek, you had to know that.”

“It’s been two years,” Derek says. “I thought you would’ve found someone else. Moved on.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t,” Scott says. He pulls out his wallet and thumbs through it. “I kept it, that note you gave me when I left. It’s selfish of me to think you’d still mean it, after all this time, but.” He holds out the paper. “I hoped you did.”

Derek stares down at his own words, nearly worn through at the creases. “Derek, you’re it for me,” Scott says. “You’re always gonna be it for me. And if you don’t feel the same anymore, I respect that and I’ll leave you alone. But I had to try. I had to ask.”

_When you come back, I’ll be here waiting._ Derek swallows. “Why _now?_ ”

“I’m going to Europe next month,” Scott says. “Headlining. My first tour outside the States. I’m just going to keep getting further and further away from you, and I don’t want to be.”

“You’re asking me to come with you?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t expect you to uproot your life just for me. But I wanted to ask you to try.”

“You want me to _try_ to uproot my life for you?” Derek asks skeptically.

“No.” He shakes his head quickly. “No, I meant, try to be together. Even when we’re…not.”

“Scott,” he says slowly, and Scott crumples. Derek steps into his space, tilting his chin up to look at him. “I broke up with you because I didn’t want to hold you back. I can’t go everywhere you go. My life is here.” He curls his hand carefully over Scott’s cheek. “But I’ll always wait for you to come back.”

Scott’s hands clench around his arms. “You’ll wait for me?” he asks.

“Scott, I’d wait for you for the rest of my life if you asked,” Derek says, laughing softly.

Scott smiles. “How about a couple of months at a time, instead?”

“I think I can manage that.” He sighs, tipping his forehead against Scott’s. “You’re it for me, too.” Scott’s gaze flicks down to his lips, and Derek leans closer…

…And Scott sneezes in his face. “Oh my god.” Derek drops his head onto Scott’s shoulder, shaking with laughter. “Derek, I am so sorry.”

Derek pats his back feebly. “’s okay,” he gasps out. “We’ve done worse.” He wraps an arm around Scott’s waist, steering him towards the back door. “Let’s get you dry. I don’t want Europe pissed at me for getting Scott McCall sick.”

Scott groans as they trudge up the stairs. “That was a _moment_ ,” he says. “That was a definite _moment_ , and I…”

“There will be more moments,” Derek says. “We have plenty of time.” He shuts the door to his apartment and locks it. “You know,” he says conversationally, “They say the best way to get warm is sharing body heat. Works better without clothes.”

Scott grins, then leaps at him. Derek catches him automatically as Scott’s legs wind around his waist. “You always have the best ideas,” Scott says.

“Eh, you have your moments.”

Scott leans down and kisses Derek so gently that his legs buckle against the door. “Think you can manage getting us to the bed?” Scott asks with a laugh.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Well, that’s the idea.”

 

They don’t pick up right where they left off, because they left off on a pretty bad note. But they pick up, somewhere, somehow. It’s difficult, and it isn’t the same as before, and it isn’t just as good.

It’s better.

It’s Scott spending the next three days in Derek’s bed and the rest of the week following him from his apartment to the bar and back again – the regulars have hometown pride for Scott McCall, but they don’t swarm him, and they keep anyone else from finding out that he’s still around. It’s Scott grabbing his arm to scribble a verse across his skin, punctuating it with a kiss to the crook of his elbow. It’s the car that finally comes to take him away, and it’s the text message that he gets as soon as it rounds the corner: _i miss u already :((((_.

It’s late night emails with Scott’s manager, Allison, getting a passport, and flying to meet Scott in Europe. It’s touring Paris and Berlin, and watching Scott’s show from backstage with the roadies. It’s Scott turning around to look for him at the end of a song, lighting up with a smile when he catches his eye and launching into the next song with renewed vigor. It’s sweaty hugs after shows, bone-deep exhaustion and buzzing adrenaline. It’s flying back to his small-town life, tracking Scott through fan-filmed tour videos online and phone calls with increasingly ridiculous time zone differences.

It’s inside jokes with Allison, and sharing cat videos with Kira, Scott’s drummer, and texting in dumb song requests to Stiles at work (he always seems to know when it’s Derek, and calls him out on the air every single time). It’s Cora and Boyd helping him make a care package and sending it to the address Allison swears will get to Scott. It’s surprising Scott on Valentine’s Day in Chicago, and on October 3rd in Tokyo, and right before the ball drops on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. It’s Scott’s face, stunned and surprised and deliriously happy, every single time.

It’s his own face when Scott shows up out of the blue at _Riversticks_ in the middle of April.

It’s Lydia, Scott’s stylist, getting him fitted for suits worth thousands of dollars, and it’s clutching Scott’s hand on the red carpet and trying not to be blinded by the flashbulbs. It’s paparazzi photos of them together in LA, and it’s tabloid gossip of him cheating on Scott with Malia because they hugged in front of one of San Francisco’s giant hearts on her Instagram (the bassist, they call her, and conveniently forget that she’s also Derek’s cousin). It’s cheering for Scott as he climbs the stage to accept his first Grammy, and it’s Scott stumbling through his acceptance speech and spending half of his allotted time thanking Derek.

It’s taking more time to visit Cora in LA’s _Riversticks_ location, and it’s dropping by Scott’s studio with fish tacos. It’s getting bored out of his mind while Scott records, and listening to increasingly ridiculous road stories from Danny while Liam swears up and down that they’re true. It’s bringing Scott’s band to _Moira’s Threads_ , and Stiles tagging along to bicker with Isaac. It’s moving some of his belongings into Scott’s giant, empty house in LA, and it’s buying a house together back in their tiny little town. It’s helping Melissa McCall weed her garden and learning her fudge recipe and Scott’s favorite childhood cookies, and it’s going to Brooklyn for lunch with Laura that turns into a three-day visit full of entertainment (for Scott) and humiliation (for him).

It’s Scott, down on one knee, asking Derek to marry him.

Derek collapses onto the chaise lounge in _Moira’s Threads_ , covering his face with his hands as he laughs helplessly. He’d never really understood why anyone would need a chaise lounge for scarf shopping, but he appreciates its existence right now. There is currently an elaborate bouquet taking up half of _Riversticks_ ’ bar, celebrating his and Scott’s six-month engagement anniversary. Derek doesn’t think there’s such a thing as an engagement anniversary, but that hasn’t stopped Scott from sending him increasingly cheesy gifts to celebrate them anyway. “That man is going to be the death of me.”

“Huh?” Isaac asks, peering at him wide-eyed from the cashier.

“Have you seen the giant bouquet downstairs?” Derek says. “It’s ridiculous. Scott is ridiculous.” He sighs, draping an arm over the back of the chaise lounge. “My fiancé is ridiculous, and I can’t believe how much I love him.”

Isaac looks down, fiddling with a scarf’s fringe. “You’re okay with that?” he asks, voice weirdly neutral. “You want to spend the rest of your life with him?”

Derek smiles. He can’t imagine his life without Scott, not anymore. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

 

Six years to the day after Derek meets Scott McCall, he marries him.

It’s the best day of his life.

“Lydia went all out with this,” Cora says, whistling at Derek’s tuxedo. “Damn, big bro, you clean up good.”

“As opposed to the sad trash hobo I usually look like?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Hey, you’re the one who said it.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Allison pokes her head in. “We’re going to get started soon. Cora, we need you out in the hall now.” She smiles at Derek. “You look great, Derek.”

“Ten bucks says Scott cries,” Erica says, squeezing past Allison into the room.

“That’s like betting ten bucks that Derek breathes,” Boyd says. “And what took you so long?”

“Almost forgot the bowtie!” Erica waves a small strip of white cloth. “Lydia would’ve killed us if Derek came down the aisle without it.”

“Yeah, especially since you insisted on making it instead of letting her buy one,” Cora says. She hugs Derek tight. (“Lydia’s gonna kill you if you wrinkle anything!” Allison squawks.) “I’m really happy for you, Derek.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, throat itchy. Cora beams up at him, then follows Allison out to the hall. He turns to Erica. “Okay, put it on me.”

“What?” Erica glances at the bowtie in her hand, then quickly hands it to Boyd. “I don’t know how to tie this.”

Derek turns to Boyd, who shrugs. “I don’t know, either.”

“Everyone calm down, I am here,” Isaac says, barreling through the door. “Dude, Scott’s so excited. He was practically bouncing off the walls when I left. I mean, not literally, because Lydia would’ve killed him if he looked sweaty in his pictures, but figuratively. Bouncing on the inside.” He looks Derek up and down, holding a hand out to Boyd for the bowtie. “You look great, Derek.”

“Thanks, Isaac.” He tilts his head back as Isaac loops the bowtie around his collar and ties it with a few quick motions.

Isaac steps back slowly, hands still on the tie, and glances at Boyd and Erica for approval. He lets go carefully, dropping his hands away with a sigh. “Now you’re perfect,” he says, sounding a little sad. “Don’t undo that, okay? You won’t be able to recreate that as nicely, and then Lydia’ll get mad.”

“Okay,” Derek says. He holds out his arms, and all three crowd in for a hug. “Thanks for always being there for me, guys. You’ve always been good friends.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re getting all weepy,” Erica sniffles. She pulls a handkerchief out of her purse and dabs at her eyes. Next to her, Isaac looks close to tears.

Boyd squeezes Derek’s shoulder one last time and opens the door. “Time to go.”

The ceremony passes in a blur. All Derek can remember is staring into Scott’s eyes, awe-filled and bright with happy tears. He doesn’t remember anything past leaning in to kiss his husband for the first time. Derek presses their foreheads together, cheeks aching from smiling so hard as Scott beams back. He’s never felt so happy. He knows he’ll never feel this happy again.

He doesn’t remember the photos, or the reception, or anything past Scott taking his hand as they leave the park together. He doesn’t remember the sky darkening, but Scott drops his hand in shock as rain pours down on them.

Derek laughs at his stunned face. “Even Scott McCall can’t control the weather,” he says cheerfully, running ahead to the street corner.

“Oh, shut up,” Scott laughs as he jogs after him. The crosswalk light switches on, and Derek steps into the street. “Hey, wait for me!”

Derek turns around, strolling backwards across the street. “I’m _waiting_ ,” he sings. He reaches for his bowtie, slowly pulling the knot free until the ends hang on either side of his collar.

He never hears the screech of tires or Scott’s horrified scream. He never feels the crush of metal or the unforgiving concrete. He never sees Scott run towards him, nearly hit by the car himself as it speeds away.

All he sees is Scott’s face, dazed and in love and deliriously happy, and he thinks, _I love him so much_.

 

* * *

 

The last thing Scott sees is Derek’s face, smiling softly and filled with love. They tell him that he screamed, that he wouldn’t stop screaming, that they found him kneeling over Derek in a pool of blood, but he doesn’t remember any of that. He doesn’t remember anything beyond the gentle curve of Derek’s lips, the mirth in his eyes.

Jackson stands just outside the hospital doors, alternating between talking with the police and shouting into cellphone. He looks every bit the professional attorney, except for the soaked tuxedo and wilting boutonniere still pinned to his lapel. “We have witnesses,” he tells Scott. “We don’t know the license plate, but we know it was a silver Viper with black stripes. They’re not going to get away with this.”

It doesn’t matter. It won’t change what’s already happened. Scott doesn’t remember anything after Derek turned around, but he knows that he’s gone. He’s…Derek is…

Something warm presses into his hands, and he stares numbly at a cup of coffee from the vending machine. Allison sinks into the seat next to Scott, Stiles’ arm wrapped tightly around him on the other side. “They don’t have any new information for us,” she says carefully. “But-”

“He’s gone,” Scott says tonelessly. He doesn’t remember, but he _knows_. “I felt it. I felt him…”

“We don’t know for sure, yet,” Stiles says.

Scott knows. He’d stopped breathing in his arms, his heart had stopped, he’d _felt_ it. He drags his eyes over the bloodstains on Stiles’ shirtsleeves from pulling Scott to his feet and into his car to follow the ambulance. Allison’s dress is a patchwork of smears from holding him close in the backseat and swallowing down her own shock. He sets the cup down on the armrest. “I can’t.”

Allison stands as Scott does, her satin heels sliding on the linoleum. “Scott?”

“I have to…” he says. “I just have to go.”

“Okay,” Allison nods quickly. “I’ll call Ethan to-”

“No!” Stiles flinches, and Allison’s mouth snaps shut, but the hospital staff don’t bat an eye. He lowers his voice. “No,” he repeats. “I won’t leave the hospital, I just have to…I can’t be here right now. I have to go.” He stresses, “ _Alone_.”

Allison nods gently, lips pressed together. “Okay,” she says. She hesitates, as if to say something else, but settles on, “We understand.”

Stiles jumps to his feet. “Take my phone,” he says, tucking it into Scott’s jacket pocket. “We’ll call you as soon as there’s news, okay?”

Scott nods, the fight sinking out of him. “Thank you,” he says hoarsely, then spins on his heel and leaves.

He doesn’t look where his feet lead him, so it’s a miracle that he ends up at the elevators. The doors slide shut behind him and slowly begin their descent. Scott leans his head back against the cool walls. “I can’t,” he says blankly. “He promised…” He stares at the numbers slowly ticking down on the screen. “I have to get him back. I have to…” He drops his head into his hands, tears stinging his eyes shut, and then the doors ding open.

“There you are!” Erica yells, crowding inside with Boyd and Isaac. “Did you mean it?”

Scott blinks confusedly. The doors slide shut, and the elevator continues its descent. “What?”

“What you just said,” Erica says. “Did you mean it?”

He stares at her, even more lost than before. “How did you even hear that?”

“Answer the question, Scott,” Boyd says. Isaac nods behind him, shifting the gig bag inexplicably slung over his shoulder.

Scott shakes his head. “I – what are you talking about?” he says. “It doesn’t matter. He’s…” He presses his lips together. “It doesn’t matter how much I want to get him back. That’s not how it works.”

“What if it could?” Isaac asks. “What if you could…” He glances at Erica, “What if you could _try_.”

“There’s a way?” Scott straightens against the wall. “How? What do I do?”

They glance at each other. “It won’t be easy,” Boyd says.

“I don’t care,” Scott says, shaking his head frantically. “If there’s a way to get Derek back, I’ll do it.”

“No matter what?” Erica asks.

“No matter what,” he repeats. He pauses. “Do I have to kill someone else to take his place?”

“What?” Isaac scoffs. “No, that’s crazy.”

“Oh, okay.” Scott nods. “Then I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?” Boyd asks.

Scott sets his jaw. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he says, and then hits the ceiling as the elevator snaps into free-fall.

Boyd helps him back to his feet. They all seem completely unaffected by the sudden speed. “You’re going to need this,” Erica says, thrusting a small takeout container into his hands.

He looks down. “Cake?” he says faintly. “Why do I need my own wedding cake?”

“For the guard dog. Hellhound, technically.”

He blinks. “ _Hellhound?_ ”

“Getting second thoughts?” Erica asks.

“No, of course not,” Scott says. “Where exactly am I going, though?”

“The Underworld,” they say in unison.

“Oh,” Scott says faintly. He nods. “Okay, so, cake for the hellhound guard dog. What else to I need to do?”

“You’re really okay with this,” Boyd says wonderingly. He turns Scott’s wrists over, inspecting the cufflinks that Braeden had given him as a wedding present. “Good, you still have them. Use these as payment for the ferryman. One to get there, one for the return trip.”

Scott nods and turns to Isaac, who hands over the gig bag. “This is for Hades.”

He straps the bag over his shoulders. “I’m giving Hades my _guitar?_ ”

“Oh, no, you hang on to that,” Isaac says. “You have to convince the king of the dead to let Derek go. Your music is your only chance.”

“Oh.” He lets out a shaky breath. “So this is what you meant by _try_ , huh?”

Erica pats his arm. “You’re the best musician I know,” she says. “And I’ve heard Apollo himself play. But when you perform, Scott…” She smiles. “You really are something else.”

The elevator slows to a stop. “Cake for the guard dog,” Scott says. “Cufflinks for the ferry. And…song…for Hades.” They nod in unison. The doors ding open, and Scott blinks. “Uh, guys? This is a parking garage.”

Isaac pats his chest, jabbing Stiles’ phone into his ribs. “Are you sure?”

Scott looks back to see a large wrought iron gate on the far side of the garage. “Oh. How did I miss that…” He shakes his head and steps through the open doors, then turns. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this, and I’m…I’m so grateful.” They dip their heads, smiling softly, and the doors slide shut.

Scott hefts his gig bag. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s do this.” The gates creak open, and he heads into the Underworld.

 

Ominous growls echo from the tunnel as Scott approaches. He carefully opens the takeout container, and nearly falls over as a sudden gust blows him back. He stumbles, shaking his head, and finds himself face-to-face with the guard dog of the Underworld.

Well, face-to-face isn’t exactly the right term. He cranes his head back to meet all six of the hellhound’s eyes. “Hello,” Scott says. “I have something for you.”

The hellhound leans back at Scott’s voice, sitting down hard and tilting its heads at him curiously. It doesn’t seem ready to attack him, so he swallows and keeps talking. “I, uh, I hope you like cake? It’s vanilla, which is kinda boring for some people, but I dunno, _I_ like vanilla, and it’s Derek’s favorite-” His throat closes. The hellhound drops to its belly, scooting closer as its serpent tail swishes back and forth.

“It _was_ Derek’s favorite,” Scott says thickly. “You met him, didn’t you? I bet he likes you. He loves dogs, the bigger, the better.” He laughs. “You know, it was actually this huge sticking point with him and Stiles when they first met, because Stiles is a cat person, and they’d always try to drag me into their arguments, but…” He trails off as hot breath puffs across his face, and then a giant tongue licks his face. Literally his entire face. Scott tries not to sputter as the two other tongues lick him. He wipes the drool from his eyes and reaches for the cake in the container, already sliced into three neat pieces. “Uh, I can only hand out one at a time, so you’ll have to take turns.” He feeds each head carefully, and almost falls over again when they snuffle happily at him. “Sorry, that’s all I have,” he says, patting the middle nose. “Would it be all right with you if…well, I need to talk to your master, you see, so may I-”

The hellhound leaps over him and noses his back, knocking him forward. “Oh, okay, it’s that way?” he asks, craning his head back as the hellhound herds him further into the tunnel. “Thank you for this. I really appreciate it.” The hellhound nudges him one last time, then barks encouragingly before turning back to the gates. “Thank you!” Scott calls, and keeps walking until the tunnel opens up to a riverbank.

A boat rocks gently at the water’s edge, and the hooded figure inside raises its head as he approaches. “Hello,” Scott says. He waves a little, then realizes how stupid he must look. He jams his hand into his pocket. “I’m here to talk to your…well, I’d like to go across the river, please. I have payment,” he adds quickly. He unpins the cufflink from one sleeve and hands it over. The ferryman’s head dips once and steps back to let him into the boat.

“Thank you,” Scott says as they row silently across the river. “I really appreciate this, I…” He sighs, staring down at his hands. “I know it isn’t fair. It’s selfish, what I’m doing. But I have a chance, you know? I’m actually here, and I have a chance, and I just…” He swallows past the lump in his throat, trying to blink the sting out of his eyes. “If there’s a chance I can get him back, I have to try. I have to ask. I can’t _not_.”

A cold hand rests on his shoulder and helps him out of the boat. “Sorry,” he says. “You probably hear that sort of thing all the time.” He clears his throat. “Thank you, again. I’m very…thank you.” The ferryman raises a hand and points at the shadows beyond the bank, and Scott nods before continuing on.

The shadows melt away as he walks closer, drawing back like curtains to reveal two dark thrones and even darker figures sitting upon them. Scott opens his mouth to speak, but the taller figure holds up a hand, gesturing at the gig bag at his back. He swallows, nods, and slowly pulls out his guitar, the one he’d played when he’d seen Derek for the first time. He drops the strap over his head, takes a deep breath, and freezes when a white strip of cloth tied to the headstock catches his eye.

It’s Derek’s bowtie, the one he’d untied right before…it’s still pristine, impossibly white, almost glowing in the dark shades of the Underworld. Scott touches it gently, eyes sliding shut, and begins to play.

He remembers the first time he’d seen Derek, how the bored-looking bartender had straightened suddenly, head tilting curiously as bright, multicolored eyes pierced straight into Scott’s soul. He remembers the salt of fish tacos from Derek’s hands and sweet watermelon smoothies from his lips. He remembers the clink of shot glasses and the screech of microphones, brazen guffaws and soft, secret sighs. He remembers gentle fingers tracing his jaw in farewell and then again in welcome, lost years written in the lines of hands and mouths and those bright, brilliant eyes. He remembers kisses like coming home, kisses like the end of the world, kisses like an anchor settled safe in his chest. He remembers Derek. He remembers _Derek_. And as the last wail of his guitar fades, as he takes slow breaths through a throat worn raw, he opens his eyes to see the dark figures staring at him, as still as the grave.

A soft cry echoes through the room. Then another, and another, and the Queen of the Underworld bows forward on her throne as her body wracks with sobs. Hades exhales, slowly as a death rattle, and glistening tears trail down his cheeks. “For what you have done to my beloved,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper, hand curling gently over his queen’s, “I allow you to bring back yours.”

He lowers his head, and Scott’s pinned to the spot, flayed open to his very core as he meets eyes that shine all at once with lush green meadows, clear blue skies, warm brown earth, and cold, gray death. “You will turn around and go back the way you came,” Hades says. “Your beloved will follow you. You must not look back, not even once, not until you have both left this realm. Do you understand?” Scott nods. “Now go.”

Scott spins around, clutching his guitar tight. He can’t hear anything, no breaths or footsteps but his own, but – Hades said – he has to trust him. He walks back to the riverbank, neck tight and shoulders hunched, and climbs into the boat, handing over his last cufflink before the ferryman pushes away from the shore. He doesn’t dare speak, not even to thank the ferryman, and he stumbles out of the boat on the other side, all but running for the tunnel to the gates.

The hellhound is silent, hidden somewhere in one of the branching paths that Scott can’t turn his head to see. The gates swing open silently for him, and he carefully steps through. He sways in place as his vision darkens, and then the parking garage appears in front of him.

He sighs in relief. He made it back, they’re back, he’s back and Derek’s back and they’re okay, now. Scott turns around with a smile, reaching back to take Derek’s hand –

– and brushes soft fingers, reaching towards him from the other side of the gates. They slip away instantly, Derek fading to shadow before his very eyes. He whispers something, but Scott can only catch the word, “Wait,” before his voice is swallowed up by the crushing darkness. The last thing Scott sees is Derek’s face, smiling softly and filled with love.

“Derek!” Scott rushes forward, but the gates slam shut in his face. He crashes against them, frantically shaking them into opening, scrabbling for a latch or lock to undo. “Please, no, no, no, _please!_ I can’t-” He slides to his knees, pressing his forehead against the cold iron. “I can’t,” he says brokenly. “I told I’d come back for him. I _promised_.”

“And come back you did,” a voice says, as dry as autumn leaves crunching underfoot. “And now it’s time for you to leave.”

He looks up. The hood still covers the ferryman’s face, but jagged scars spread across a shadowed neck. “I can’t,” Scott says. “Not without him.” He drags himself to his feet, bracing against the gates for support. “If he can’t come back with me, then I’ll stay here with him.”

The ferryman spreads calloused hands. “You already used up your toll. If you choose to stay now, you’ll never be able to cross the river, and you’ll never be with him again. Not even in the Underworld.”

“But-”

“You cannot cheat death, Scott McCall,” the ferryman says. “It is Derek’s time. It is not yours.”

His hands clench against the gates. “When will it be my time?”

“It will be your time when it is your time.” The ferryman dips its hooded head. “When you return, I promise to deliver you to your beloved. But not until then.”

A shrill beep cuts through the air, and Scott jerks back from the gates, fumbling Stiles’ phone out of his jacket pocket. When he looks up, the gates are gone, and he’s alone in the empty garage.

No, not alone. Stiles hurries towards him, phone in hand. “Scott,” he says, voice shaking. “I came as fast as I could. I…”

He nods tiredly. “Tell me.”

Stiles’ face crumbles. “I’m sorry,” he says, and that’s all Scott needs to know. Stiles doesn’t ask about the guitar at his feet or the thick scent of iron in his hands. He just holds Scott tight as he bows forward on the unforgiving concrete, body wracking with sobs. He doesn’t feel Stiles’ hand wrapped around the back of his head, and he doesn’t feel Allison kneel next to them and squeeze his hand.

He doesn’t feel anything at all.

 

* * *

 

He wins the lawsuit, or whatever, as Jackson tells Allison to tell him. It gets him a lot of money that he doesn’t care about, and he gives it all to Cora, who gives it all to Braeden, who puts it all into maintaining _Riversticks_. He writes an album’s worth of sad songs, scraps them all, writes an album’s worth of even sadder songs, scraps them all, and hides in their – his – no, _their_ – house for two months. And then another two months.

When he trips over the couch and somehow finds himself upside down and laughing hysterically at one of Derek’s old socks, he has to admit that he’s probably lost it. He writes an album’s worth of songs so terrifyingly cheerful that even Kira struggles to find something positive to say about them, scraps them all, and wanders into the nearest tattoo parlor. When he walks out with two rings wrapped around his arm to match the ones on his finger, he feels more centered than he has in a long time. He boards a plane to LA, walks straight into the studio, and records ten songs for _The Wait_.

(Okay, technically, he doesn’t walk _straight_ into the studio. He stops off at baggage claim, first.)

The first recordings of all ten songs are utter shit, partly because he wrote exactly nothing down beforehand and partly because he didn’t sleep at all on the redeye flight. He slows down and spends the next few months rewriting and making them slightly less shit. The band show up eventually, a little confused and a lot concerned, and it isn’t until Malia steps forward and hugs him cautiously that Scott realizes how much of an asshole he’s been.

Malia lost her cousin. Cora lost her brother. They all lost their friend. He pulls them all into a group hug and apologizes for shutting them out.

They leave the studio and spend the night at Cora’s _Riversticks_ , drinking Nebraskas and Stick-In-The-Muds and recounting all their favorite stories of Derek. They laugh a lot, and cry a lot, and there are stretches of pained silence when a memory hits too hard, but they’re all there and they all get through it together. It becomes a weekly tradition, and everyone doesn’t always make it – especially when Stiles and Lydia and Jackson have to go back to work – but there’s always enough of them to fill a table and toast to Derek. Cora squeezes his hand, the bands on his finger digging into his skin, and he squeezes the bands around his arm. The smiles they exchange never quite lose their sadness, but they get stronger as time wears on.

Not long before _The Wait_ is due to drop, the band sit him down in the studio and play a recorded track for him. Scott recognizes it as soon as the first note sounds, and for a split second he’s back in the Underworld, lost in Derek’s memory. “Where did you find this?” he asks.

“It was with those first recordings you made,” Liam says thickly, wiping tears from his eyes. Next to him, Danny passes around tissues. “It’s…Scott, this is amazing.”

“We think you should put it on the album,” Kira says. “It’s important.”

“I…” Scott rubs his hands together. It’s a habit he picked up from Derek. “I don’t know if I can.”

“We know it’s about Derek,” Malia says. “That’s why it’s so important that you put it out there.” She touches his arm gently. “You need to let go.”

He swallows. “I don’t want it to be a single. I don’t want to promote it, I can’t handle hearing it all the time…”

“It can be a hidden track,” Danny says. “Not even a bonus track, but like one of those ones where you have to rewind from the very beginning to find. It just – it can’t stay locked away like this. That’s not good for you.”

“You need the closure,” Kira says. She glances at Malia, squeezing her hand. “We all do.”

“Okay.” Scott nods. “Okay. We’ll put it on the album.”

“Do you have a name for it?” Liam asks.

He takes a breath, remembering the last note echoing throughout the Underworld and the god of death’s piercing stare. “D♭.”

 

The album drops. It goes gold, then platinum, then double-platinum, then triple-platinum, then Scott stops paying attention when Allison tells him updates. He makes TV appearances and shoots music videos and sits through interview after interview after interview, and it’s a relief whenever he goes on tour. He stays on the road for as long as possible and only takes breaks when the band needs them.

“The label wants to reissue _The Wait_ ,” Allison tells him. “Just dig up some old songs to toss on there, come up with a name to tack onto it, and they’ll be happy.”

“Okay,” Scott says, and hides in his and Derek’s house for another two months.

When he trips over the couch and somehow finds himself upside down and laughing hysterically at his own arm, he has to admit that he’s probably lost it. Again.

“Like, on the one hand I’m thinking pipe organs, but on the other hand I’m like, nah, that’s just so cliché, you know?” he tells the front door, and then falls off the couch when it actually opens.

“Yeah, I totally get what you’re saying, pipe organs feel a little too on the nose for that song,” Isaac says as he walks in. “Which is hilarious, because I’m pretty sure the big guy downstairs never really liked them. Did he, Erica?”

“Nah, but Zeus is pretty fond of them.”

“That does not even surprise me,” Isaac says, shaking his head. “Why are you hiding behind the couch, Scott?”

“I’m not _hiding_ ,” Scott huffs as he gathers up his scattered sheet music. “I just fell.”

“Should’ve stuck with hiding,” Boyd says. “That one sounds less pathetic.”

Erica picks up a stray page of music. “Oh, you’re working on this, now?” she asks excitedly. “That’s great! I always liked this version better.”

“I…haven’t finished it yet?” Scott says, taking the page back from her. “And how did you get through the door? It was locked.”

“Yeah, what’s your point?” Isaac asks.

“It was _deadbolted_.”

“Yeah, what’s your point?”

Scott sighs. “Never mind. Did Stiles send you guys to check in on me again?”

“Like I’d ever listen to Stiles,” Isaac scoffs.

“So, Allison, then?”

“If Allison sent us, we would’ve knocked,” Erica says. “No, we came by because we have something for you.”

Scott drops onto the couch. “Please don’t tell me there’s another weird quest or something.” He rubs his thumb over the rings on his finger. “I can’t go through that again.”

Erica sits next to him, tilting her head onto his shoulder. “Do you regret it?”

He’s silent for several minutes. “I got to see him one last time,” he says finally. “I’m grateful for that.”

Boyd nods. “Then you’re ready to have this.”

He drops a small strip of cloth into Scott’s hands, impossibly white and pristine. Scott knows that ends have been joined together somehow, but he can’t see any stitches, or a seam, or anything but an unbroken loop of fabric. He turns it over in his hands, feeling along a thick thread running along the inside. “This wasn’t there, before,” he says. “What is it?”

“Yours,” Isaac says simply.

Oh. He lets out a shuddery breath, running a finger along the unending thread sewn tight into Derek’s bowtie. “You’re gonna cut this for me one day, right?”

“One day,” Isaac nods. “Soon, but not as soon as you think.”

Scott winds the bowtie around his hand. “Why are you giving this to me?” he asks.

“You’ve gone to the Underworld, Scott,” Erica says. “You brought the god of death himself to tears. I think you can handle your own mortality.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I…I thought I’d never see this again, so. Thank you.”

They nod and turn to leave. “You know,” Boyd says, “Derek said once that he’d wait the rest of his life for you.” He unlocks the deadbolt and opens the door. “He’d wait the rest of your life for you, too. Make it a good one.”

“I will.”

“The song’s gonna be great,” Erica says. She winks and follows Boyd out the door.

Isaac hesitates in the doorway. “Am I ever going to see you again?” Scott asks.

“Hey, I’ve got a busy scarf business to run, I’ll be around,” Isaac says cheekily, then slumps under Scott’s gaze. “You’ll know,” he says, nodding at the bowtie. “That’s going to come undone one day, and then you’ll know.”

“One day,” Scott repeats, nodding. “But not until then.”

Isaac smiles and shuts the door behind him.

 

Kira stares down at the sheet music. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah, new arrangement for the reissue,” Scott says. He hands Liam his part and rocks back on his heels nervously. “What do you think?”

“Scott,” Danny says slowly. “This…this is going to be a single. It’s going to be a _huge_ hit. They’re gonna play this everywhere.”

“They’re going to want _you_ to play it everywhere,” Malia adds. “Are you ready for that?”

Scott sighs. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” he admits. “But I want to. I want to play it, and I want to play it with you guys.” He smirks. “D♭’s a pretty tough song, though, you think you can handle it?”

Danny’s jaw drops in mock outrage. “I’m the one who taught you to play the guitar in the first place, you jerk.”

“Yeah, and I’m glad you did. If you hadn’t, I never would’ve known any of you guys,” Scott says, grinning at Kira, Malia, and Liam. He blinks as he realizes, “I never would’ve known Derek.”

Kira and Malia glance at each other hesitantly, Liam stares at Scott with wide eyes, and Danny just sort of freezes mid-way towards misplaced guilt. Scott swallows, rubbing the bands on his arm. “Thank you,” he adds. “I’m glad that I did.”

Kira lets out a breath and looks down at her sheet music. “I’m gonna need a whole new kit for this,” she says, breaking the tension like she always can. “It’s gonna be crazy setting it up on tour.”

“Oh, god, Allison’s gonna get so annoyed,” Malia giggles, holding her hand out for a high-five.

While the others start plotting out set logistics and, more importantly, how to get Allison to agree to them, Liam sits down next to Scott. “You ever think you’ll bring ‘You And I’ back to the setlist?” he asks quietly. “I kind of miss it.”

Scott misses it, too. But there’s something stopping him from bringing it back. Somehow, impossibly, he knows that the day he plays “You And I” again will be the day that the thread sewn through Derek’s bowtie finally snaps. It’s fitting. He’s only ever played that song for Derek, _to_ Derek, and he’s grateful that Isaac would bring that full circle for him, in the end. He doesn’t know when it’ll happen, or how, but there’s a sort of comfort in that feeling, deep in his gut.

His days are limited, just everyone’s are. He has to make sure they’re all worth it. Scott smiles at Liam, shaking his head softly. “One day,” he promises. “But not yet.”

 

* * *

  

_“Duuuuude. Did you see the medley Scott McCall played at the Grammys last night?”_

_“Oh my god. Dude. Dude. Dude, oh my god.”_

_“He played Stick-In-The-Mud at the_ Grammys _, I was pissing-”_

_“I love how every time they panned to the audience they were just losing their shit.”_

_“Gar & Vi headbanging to Tattoo (Open Wound), they looked so ridiculous-”_

_“Yeah, but did you see Kali freaking_ moshing _with Jordan Parrish and J.B. during REvolve? Moshing at the Grammys. Only Scott McCall, man.”_

_“Oh my god, that mashup of Nebraska and Hail, though, I thought I was gonna cry-”_

_“Dude, but when they stopped after Knowing When.”_

_“Yeah, like, you could actually_ hear _the audience screaming for D_ _♭_ _. Like, they were so loud the mics picked it up and everything.”_

_“I mean, it was obvious they were gonna play it, you saw Kira’s crazy-ass kit-”_

_“Calm down, not everyone follows Scott McCall’s_ backing band _with the same obsession that you do.”_

_“Duuuude but it was so fucking good, though. I’m so glad they played the full song and didn’t just put it in the medley.”_

_“Man, D_ _♭_ _is just pure gold from start to finish. I rewatched it, like, ten times just crying my eyes out.”_

_“That song, man._ That song. _”_

_“I can’t handle it. It’s a fucking legend.”_

_“Seriously, though. Like, it came out before I was_ born _and it’s still so epic.”_

_“My parents fell in love over that song, you know? And everyone still loves it today! It’s just…it’s a legend.”_

_“I bet you it’ll still be epic in_ another _twenty years. It’s just that good, man.”_

_“We’re going to his Back To Nebraska tour, right?”_

_“Dude, I already got the tickets. It’s gonna be amazing.”_

_“It’s gonna be so epic_.”

_“I can’t wait.”_


	2. Alternate Version

_“Dude! I can’t wait to go to Scott McCall’s Never Look Back Tour! It’s gonna be so epic!”_

_“You’re gonna love it. He’s an amazing performer.”_

_“Like, last time I saw him live I swear he looked_ right _at me when he was singing D_ _♭_ _.”_

_“Dude, don’t. Everyone always says that. He’s never actually looking at you. In fact, the way stages are lit compared to the audience, it’s-”_

_“Shut up! You’re just jealous that you’ve never heard D_ _♭_ _live.”_

_“Okay, true, true. You think he’s gonna play it when we go see him?”_

_“Please. It’s always his last encore song. You remember that Live In Mexico DVD when he played ‘Tattoo’ for his encore instead, and the entire arena chanted for D_ _♭_ _until he came back out? They didn’t stop screaming until a roadie found him the right guitar.”_

_“D_ _♭_ _is legendary, man. He’ll definitely play it for his encore. I mean, he has so many good songs-”_

_“-Tattoo (Open Wound)-”_

_“-Nebraska-”_

_“-Toy Horse-”_

_“-Gettin’ Your Juice, that’s always a classic-”_

_“-dude, Stiles, can’t forget Stiles-”_

_“-Riversticks -”_

_“-oh my god,_ Riversticks _-”_

_“-but D_ _♭_ _is…it’s just. Man.”_

_“You know a song’s good when it wasn’t even a single and it’s still everywhere.”_

_“Man, not even that, it was a fucking hidden track on_ The Wait. _Why would you fucking hide a track that good?”_

_“I cry every time I listen to it.”_

_“Every damn time.”_

_“I heard they actually play it on the radio_ less _because it makes people cry so much.”_

_“Dude, stop believing everything you read on the internet. But if you think it’s amazing on your headphones or the TV, just wait ‘till you’re there live.”_

_“When you see him perform, oh man. Oh man.”_

_“So pumped for the tour. It’s gonna be amazing.”_

 

* * *

 

When Derek first sees Scott McCall, he thinks, _Huh_.

He’s seen plenty of earnest young musicians sitting on that rickety old stool during Open Mic Night, and they all blend together inoffensively in his head. _Riversticks_ isn’t known for its musical talent – Derek isn’t really sure what his bar’s known for at all, aside from living underneath a weirdly successful scarf boutique – so he never expects anything special. Just someone who can sit there, pluck out some notes, and sing mostly in key.

Scott can definitely sing. His voice is clear with a little growl to it, and he doesn’t flub a single note through his entire set. He’s talented, for sure. But there’s something about him, something about the way he sits on that wobbly stool like it’s the finest of thrones and banters easily with the crowd. The fact that some of the crowd actually banters back is astonishing. Usually, they flat-out ignore whoever traipses in for Open Mic Night (and then whine to Derek about the lack of Open Mic Night when he cancels it due to perceived lack of interest). Derek watches Scott lead the bar in an admittedly impressive cover of “Bad Romance,” smile lighting up the room, and thinks, _Huh_.

“Sounds like you’re a little stuck on this guy,” Isaac says. He hangs up new scarves around the boutique in no particular order that Derek can tell, frowning critically at a display before arranging it into an even more clashing color scheme. “So what’s so special about him?”

“I dunno,” Derek says. “He’s a talented musician, I guess.”

“Is he hot?”

Derek jerks and knocks over a stand. “What?” he says. “I don’t know; I don’t pay attention to that.”

“Mm-hm,” Isaac says, watching Derek pick up the scarves instead of actually helping him. “So he’s _really_ hot. You should go for it.”

“Go for – I’m not going for _anything_ ,” Derek says. He hangs the last scarf back up. They’re probably arranged completely wrong, but Isaac doesn’t seem to care. “He’s just a nice guy who played at the bar once. I’ll probably never see him again.”

“Sure thing,” Isaac says agreeably. “What was his name again?”

“Scott McCall,” he says without thinking, and then mentally curses. Isaac cackles.

 

Derek’s finally managed to forget about Scott McCall when he shows up a week later for Open Mic Night.

(That’s a lie. He hasn’t forgotten about him at all. There may or may not already be a new drink on the specials board called _S &M_. Braeden had added the ampersand to make the whole thing, in her words, “slightly less pathetic.” He resolutely does not look at the drink or at Scott walking in with his cheery smile and guitar in hand.)

“I’ll take that one,” Erica says, pointing at the special as she sits at the bar. “It looks like it has a lot of alcohol, and I’ll probably need it to suffer through your Open Mic Night.”

“I’ve tried canceling Open Mic Night _five times_ ,” Derek says, handing the drink over with a sigh. “Every single time I do, you all complain until I bring it back.”

“Well, that’s just them,” Erica says airily.

“You complain more than everyone else combined,” he points out. “Which is saying a lot.”

“Rude. I do _not_ complain more than Isaac.” She leans an elbow on the bar, turning her body towards the stage as Scott sets up. “Ten bucks says he cracks a note on his first song.”

“He’s really good, actually,” Derek says. “I mean, uh.”

“Derek Hale!” Erica exclaims, pressing a hand to her chest in feigned surprise. “You actually _remember_ this one? Who is he?”

The microphone whines to life. “Hey guys, I’m Scott!”

Erica whirls around to stare at Derek, eyes wide with glee. “No,” Derek says immediately.

“I didn’t even say anything,” Erica pouts. Then, “Now I see why you named a drink after him.”

“I did _not_.”

She sips her S&M primly. “Sure thing, Derek.”

 

The thing is, Scott is _really_ talented. Like, ridiculously so. Erica loves to tear apart the Open Mic Night performances while Derek closes up the bar for the night, but the only criticism she can muster up for Scott McCall is that he plays too many Lady Gaga covers.

“What’s wrong with Lady Gaga?” Derek asks. “Besides, he puts really interesting spins on them.” He really likes Scott’s take on “You and I,” and it has everything to do with his acoustic arrangement and nothing to do how it looked like Scott had winked at him when he’d crooned, _Nebraska_.

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with Gaga,” Erica says. “It’s just…I’d put more diversity in my set, is all.”

“There’s always something with you, Erica,” Derek sighs. “He’s really good, isn’t he?”

“He really is,” she says. “He shouldn’t be playing lukewarm crowds at small-town bars – no offense, Derek – he should be playing real venues with crowds that actually want to be there.”

“Not stadiums and arenas?”

She tilts her beer bottle at him. “Gotta crawl before you can walk, Derek.”

He nods and finishes wiping down the bar before walking Erica up to her apartment because she forgot her keys, like always.

 

The next week, Erica abandons Derek at the bar in favor of sitting at Scott’s table and chatting with him about his set. Scott listens to her advice carefully, nodding earnestly even when Cora butts in to contradict every single one of Erica’s notes. He starts bringing a keyboard instead of his guitar, sometimes, and occasionally a friend accompanying him on the box drum or, for some reason, the melodica. (It’s a perfect fit for his song, “Stiles,” but it’s still kind of weird.) He gets the crowd to follow his lead in eighth note handclaps and sings along to their beat – they fall apart hopelessly two minutes in, which is two minutes longer than Derek expected them to last, but Scott still manages to finish the song, anyway.

(Derek may or may not download his EP on iTunes and run up his play count to an embarrassing number. There are triple digits. He isn’t proud.)

After two months of Scott coming in like clockwork for Open Mic Night and playing progressively better sets to an increasingly interested (and increasing, period) crowd, Derek gets Cora to make a few changes to the sign-up board. Scott walks in at his usual time, makes his usual rounds chatting with the regulars, and then has a very short, very confused conversation with Cora at the board before making a beeline to the bar. “What did I do?”

Derek looks up in surprise. “Huh?”

“Oh, sorry, hi, I’m Scott,” Scott says. “Um, Cora said I’m not allowed to sign up for Open Mic Night anymore, so, uh…what did I do?”

Derek sighs. “Did Cora actually show you the board?”

“Uh, no?”

Of course she didn’t. Derek sighs again. “You’re on the board. Go check it.”

Scott leaves, still looking confused, and comes running back a few minutes later. “You gave me my own slot.” Derek nods. “With extra time.” He nods again. “Uh, doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of _Open_ Mic Night?”

“Well, technically, you’re on _after_ Open Mic Night,” Derek says. “There’s still the same amount of slots as before, and most of the crowd’s here for you, anyway.” He nods at the nearly-packed tables. “Figured you could use the extra time.”

“Oh,” Scott says, at a loss for words. “Thank you. You didn’t have to…I really appreciate it.”

“You’re really talented,” Derek says, shrugging. “If you really wanted it, I know you could make it big.” Scott just keeps gaping at him wordlessly, so Derek adds, “Besides, I miss hearing your Lady Gaga covers.”

Scott laughs, surprised. “Yeah? Which one’s your favorite?”

Erica insists that his “Paparazzi” cover is the best, but Derek says, “You and I.”

“Me, too,” Scott says with a smile. He blinks. “Oh, hey! I don’t think I ever properly introduced myself. I’m-”

“Scott McCall,” Derek finishes, nodding.

“Yeah,” he says, and cringes. “I am so sorry. I’m about to look like the biggest jerk right now, but…I can’t remember your name.”

Derek smirks down at the glass in his hand. “That’s because I never told you it.”

“Oh, thank god,” Scott says, slumping over the bar in relief. Derek bursts into laughter. “It’s not funny! I feel like such a jerkoff when I forget people’s names!”

“Okay, I’m sorry I laughed,” Derek says. “I’m Derek, by the way. Derek Hale.”

“Derek Hale,” Scott repeats, lips curving into a smile. “Now that’s a name I’ll never forget.”

He plays “You and I” at the end of his set. And he _definitely_ winks at Derek when he sings, _Nebraska_. Derek grins down at the bar and tries to ignore the way the tips of his ears burn.

 

Derek has no idea how _Moira’s Threads_ manages to be so successful when it’s only run by three people and he barely ever sees anyone actually shopping there, but he doesn’t think about it too much. Besides, whenever they _do_ get a customer, they send them down to Derek’s for a drink, which is nice of them. (They usually end up ordering Mind Erasers, for some reason. Derek supposes he would need that after dealing with Isaac’s customer service, too.) Derek’s tried sending some of his customers upstairs to return the favor, but apparently it’s pretty weird when your bartender tries to recommend scarves to you.

They’re nice people. Well, Boyd is nice. He comes down and helps Derek bartend during happy hour, sometimes, and he always mixes drinks with perfect proportions, no matter how complicated the recipe. He’s also established some sort of silent camaraderie with Cora, which is probably half the reason Derek likes Boyd so much. He spends most of his breaks hanging out in the boutique’s back room, eating lunch while Boyd sketches out new designs for Erica to make.

(Isaac is apparently not allowed to so much as touch the products until they’re completely finished. Derek can only guess that he’s even worse at knitting than Cora, who once created a foot-long scarf comprised entirely of knots.)

Erica and Isaac…well, they mean well. He’s gotten used to Erica pounding on the back door because she’s forgotten her keys again, and Isaac continually attempting to do tricks with Derek’s empty bottles despite dropping them every single time. He just knows to never leave them unsupervised for too long, ever since that time he went to the bathroom and came back to find them pouring several bottles of liquor onto the bar and lighting it on fire whilst screaming about a “flaming river.” (Cora thought it was hilarious. Braeden gave them the matches. Derek needs a better staff.)

So Derek is understandably concerned when, while eating lunch in the back room with Boyd, he hears Isaac starting up his Aladdin spiel with a customer out front. It’s the one he tends to use when he’s trying to weird someone out enough to leave. “Should we go help him?” Derek asks, not entirely sure if he’s referring to Isaac or to his male-sounding customer.

Boyd shrugs and eats another handful of chips. “Nah. It’s always entertaining.” Derek has no idea how they manage to turn a profit when Isaac scares away at least half of their customers, but, whatever. It’s not his store.

“I can show you the world,” Isaac shouts, and Derek snorts as he pictures him throwing his arms wide. “Shining, shimmering, splendid.”

To Derek’s surprise, the customer replies, “Tell me princess, now when did you last let your heart decide?” and that’s the only warning they get before two launch into a duet of “A Whole New World.”

“That’s new,” Boyd says, not sounding surprised at all. Isaac’s singing voice is screechy and at least three times worse than Derek’s heard him before, but the customer’s is smooth and clear and awfully familiar. Derek’s eyes widen, and he scuttles behind the desk while Boyd raises a judgmental eyebrow at him. “That’s Scott!” he hisses.

“Yeah, I know,” Boyd says. “Cora sent him up here.”

Derek tries to sit up, and only succeeds in banging his head on the bottom of the desk. “Cora did what now?”

“Sent him up here,” Boyd repeats. “Since you always ignore him when he comes by the bar.”

“I do not-” Boyd raises his eyebrow. “I talked to him once!” Boyd raises his other eyebrow. “I’m just busy; it’s not like I do it on purpose.”

“And now you’re _not_ busy,” Boyd says. “Hence Cora sending him up here.”

“But _why?_ ” he asks, whining so hard his voice actually cracks.

Boyd stares at him. “Derek,” he says finally, “You are way too old for that sort of noise to be coming out of your mouth.”

The door flings open, and Isaac pokes his head in. Or, Derek guesses that Isaac pokes his head in, but he can’t actually see because he’s ducked back under the desk. “He’s the one! I’m keeping him forever! Why are you hiding under the desk, Derek?”

“I wasn’t – I dropped something,” Derek says, crawling out from under the desk.

“Yeah, your dignity,” Boyd says, and doesn’t even have the decency to mutter it under his breath. Derek takes back every nice thing he ever said about him. He waves lamely at Scott, who leans in the doorway with Isaac half draped over him. “Uh. Hi.”

“Hi, Derek!” Scott says, giving a dorky little wave. Derek tries and fails to not find it endearing. “Uh, you were always busy when I came by the bar, but then Cora said you might be up here, so I, uh. I was wondering if. Um.”

“Actually, I was just about to head back down,” Derek says. “My break’s over.”

“Oh,” Scott says. He nods at the floor. “Oh. Yeah, gotcha, sorry about that, I’ll leave you alone. Nice meeting you, Isaac!” he says quickly, and all but flees out of the back room.

Derek hesitates for a split second before he yells, “Scott, wait!” He hurries into the store (Isaac flattens himself dramatically against the doorframe as he runs by) and catches Scott at the front door. “It’s pretty slow downstairs right now,” he says. “If you don’t mind hanging out at a bar.”

Scott turns slowly, hands jammed into his pockets. “Won’t your boss mind me being there?”

“I own the bar.”

“Oh,” Scott says. “Oh!” He pulls his hands out of his pockets, grinning. “Yeah, I’d like that, then.”

Derek smiles and opens the door. “After you.”

 

It doesn’t take Derek long to realize that Scott McCall is the best thing to ever happen to him.

It still takes him long enough to not realize until right before he loses him.

It’s nothing dramatic, on either side of things. It’s Scott clambering onto a bar stool to kiss him over the counter at work, and it’s walking hand in hand across town to Scott’s apartment. It’s scrambled eggs in the morning and the wrath of Scott’s roommate when he drinks the last of the milk. It’s sweet smiles from _Riversticks’_ tiny stage, and bringing Cora’s fish tacos to Scott at the nursery where he works. It’s going to Scott’s shows at real venues in the city, helping move amps and talking his drummer down from pre-show jitters.

It’s hearing “Stiles” on the radio and immediately putting Scott on speakerphone to hear it, too. It’s kissing away his bashful smile when the song starts to climb the rock charts, and sexiling Scott’s roommate, the actual Stiles, to celebrate when it cracks the Hot 100, and then again when it soars to the top of the charts. It’s Scott leaving for the summer to play Warped Tour, and it’s going to the nearest tour date and watching Scott from the crowd, and it’s getting in the end of line at his signing tent and Scott kissing him silly when he finally sees him.

It’s Scott telling him, hesitantly, that he got signed, that he’s moving to LA, that he doesn’t know when he’ll be back.

It’s Derek choosing to let him go instead of weighing him down.

It’s driving him to the airport, and wrapping the infinity scarf that Boyd and Erica made especially for him around his neck, and slipping a note into his pocket as he kisses him one last time.

_When you come back, I’ll be here waiting._

Scott McCall is the best thing that ever happened to Derek, and he’ll always love him. But part of loving is knowing when to let go.

 

* * *

 

_“…And that was Scott McCall with the eponymous single off his album,_ Nebraska _. Eponymous, that means named after. I just gave you all a vocabulary lesson. You’re welcome. Anyway, we’re all waiting patiently for Scott to finish his upcoming album, but I hear we’ll be getting a new song in the not-too-distant future-”_

Braeden turns the radio down. “Why do you listen to that stuff?”

“It’s Stiles,” Derek says. “We’re kind of friends; the least I could do is tune in for his show.”

“Not like he needs the support; he’s doing fine,” Braeden snorts. She swirls the ice in her glass. “You thought any more about Cora’s offer?”

“She’s got the new _Riversticks_ location all figured out, she’ll do fine.”

“Yeah, obviously, but I meant more in relation to you,” Braeden says. “And I don’t just mean you going down there to help with the hiring process. It’s been, what, two years? A change of pace could be good for you, Derek. Get out there in the big city. Soak up some sun. Meet new people.”

“I’m not interested. I like it here just fine.” Derek drops a straw into his newest concoction and pushes it across the counter to her. “What d’you think?”

She lifts the glass, eyeing its appearance. “It looks like a sunset,” she comments, then takes a sip. Her eyebrows shoot up. “ _Tastes_ like a sunset. Sweet, subtly fruity, and…warm, somehow. Not literally warm, but, cozy, you know?”

“Good.” He nods, scribbling on the specials board. “Good. That’s what I was going for.”

“What are you calling it?” Derek turns the board around for her to read. “Oh, _Derek_.”

He shrugs and hangs the board back up. “We should start setting up for Open Mic Night.”

She finishes the rest of the drink and brings it back to the kitchens. “Whatever you say, boss.”

He flips the lights on, illuminating the specials board inviting customers to try the _Nebraska_.

 

Halfway through Open Mic Night, Derek frowns at the sign-up board. “Braeden,” he asks, “why is there an extra slot at the bottom labeled ‘Special Guest?’”

“Because a special guest is coming in to play a set,” Braeden says, as if stating the obvious. She kind of is, but, still. “Boyd set it up.”

“Oh.” Well, if Boyd set it up, then they can’t be too bad. “Do I know them?”

“They’ve played here before?” Braeden says, shrugging vaguely.

That narrows it down to a few hundred people, only one of whom Derek ever really remembered. He sighs. “Well, is there anything I can help with?”

“Nope, it’s all settled!” Braeden chirps. “You just man the bar and keep the drinks flowing.” She starts to walk away, then turns back. “Oh, and, uh, we _might_ be getting a bigger audience when they show up, so. Gird your loins, or whatever.”

Well, at least now Derek understands why Boyd has been missing all night. Isaac slips away half an hour before the guest set with a cheery wink. “I’ll have two Radio Ladies, two S&Ms, and, ooh, and three Nebraskas, that one looks good,” Erica says as she slides onto her usual stool at the bar.

“Damn, is the special guest that bad?” Derek asks.

“They’re for Boyd and Isaac, too,” she huffs. “I’m just giving you the order now. Don’t forget a Stick-In-The-Mud for Boyd, dunno why he likes that one but it’s very _you_ , so. Oh, and hold off on that last Nebraska until right before the set. That one’s for the guest.”

“How do you even know they’ll want to try it?”

Erica leers at him. “Trust me. They will.”

Derek leans back. “Please tell me the special guest isn’t Stiles trying out his live DJ skills.”

Erica stares at him in shock, then bursts into laughter. “God, no,” she snorts. “No. I promise, Derek, it isn’t Stiles.”

“Well, good.” He relaxes a little. “You want me to start you off with a Radio Lady?”

“You know me too well,” Erica says, batting her eyelashes at him. “Don’t forget the bow on my straw!”

The special guest comes in through the back door, all but drowning in Boyd’s hoodie with sunglasses covering his face. He also brings two security guards stationed on either side of the tiny stage. “Erica,” Derek says, frowning, “Who the hell is…” His throat dries as the guest unzips Boyd’s hoodie, and. He knows that jaw, has traced it hundreds of times with his hands and his lips. He knows that mouth on his, that nose brushing his skin, those cheeks plumped in laughter. He knows that infinity scarf. He gave it to him, the last time he –

Erica slurps her Radio Lady innocently as Derek whirls to glare at her. “You _didn’t_.”

“Technically, Isaac did,” she says.

“Isaac never finishes something you didn’t start.”

“Well, okay, I kind of did. But it was his idea!”

Derek stares at her, because if he looks away he’ll stare at the stage instead, and he can’t. “Since when is _Isaac_ your idea guy?”

“No,” Erica says exasperatedly. “It wasn’t Isaac’s idea, it was-”

Scott McCall whips off his sunglasses and tosses them to his security guard. “Man, I feel like such a jerkoff wearing those indoors. And at night. Sorry about that.” He settles down on the rickety old stool with ease. “Hey guys, thanks for sticking around. I’m Scott.”

Erica carefully reaches forward and pulls a drink from Derek’s slack grip. “Now do you get why I had you make the drinks ahead of time?” Derek doesn’t answer, just tries to remember how to breathe or at least close his mouth as Scott quickly tunes his guitar, pointedly not looking towards the bar, and launches into “Stiles.”

The set passes in a blur. At some point, Erica manages to push him into a chair, and Isaac and Boyd show up to down the rest of the drinks, but Derek can’t focus on anything but Scott. He’s…more serious, now, with that calmly commanding stage presence that Derek’s seen on TV and computer screens. His hair is shorter, he’s more filled out, and he seems so relaxed even in the face of the now-packed bar. He looks…he looks happy. He looks _good_.

“Before I play this last song, I thought I’d let you guys know why I wanted to come here tonight,” Scott says, strumming his guitar idly. “I’ll be releasing a new song tomorrow-” he pauses as shrieks echo through the bar, “-but I wanted to play it here first. Because this song, it’s all about beginnings and coming full circle, and this place here is where it all began for me.

“A couple years ago, I was on this same stage, sitting on this same stool, singing to some of the same people I’m singing to tonight. This place, and everyone in it, is so important to me, and I wouldn’t be here without all of you.” Scott smiles out at the crowd. “So this song is for you. This is ‘Riversticks.’”

Derek sits numbly through the song. He watches as Scott stands at the end of the song, bows, and leaves out the back door with a last wave to the cheering crowd. He never looks Derek’s way, not even once. “Derek?” Erica asks carefully.

He starts, blinking out of his reverie. “That was good,” he says, tearing his gaze from the back door. “I, uh-”

The back door bursts open, and Scott jogs back onstage with his acoustic guitar in hand. “Sorry, I lied!” he chirps into the microphone. “ _This_ is the last song, for real this time. A lot of my friends don’t like this song, and I don’t know if it’s because I play it too much around them, or if it’s just a bad arrangement.” He shrugs. “But I don’t care, because I know there’s at least _one_ person on this planet who likes my cover of this song. Besides me, I mean,” he adds cheekily, and the crowd laughs. “Well, at least I hope they still do,” he says, quieter, then shakes his head and starts playing. Derek recognizes the chord progression instantly, and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush when Scott looks him straight in the eye and sings, “ _It’s been a long time since I came around, been a long time, but I’m back in town; this time, I’m not leaving without you._ ”

 

Scott doesn’t stay to talk to him after. Of course he can’t, not with the crowded bar and his security guards. He leaves through the front door, draws the crowd further down the street, and signs anything that his fans push in front of him. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac stay after closing to help him and Braeden clean up, but Derek sends them all home when it starts raining.

He wipes halfheartedly at the counter, then gives up and sits in the dimmed lights of the bar, staring down the last Nebraska while the rain pounds outside. Scott had stared at him through the entirety of “You And I.” He hadn’t looked away, not once, and the intensity of his gaze is seared into the backs of Derek’s eyelids. He’s about to get up and wash out the glass when knocks echo from the back door.

Derek sighs. At least they all live in the same building, so Erica didn’t get caught out in the rain traveling back here. “What did you forget now, Er-” he asks as he opens the door, then freezes when he finds himself staring at one completely soaked Scott McCall.

“She still forgets her stuff down here?” Scott asks, smiling hesitantly.

“All the time,” Derek says. He backs up to let Scott in. “Did you swim here?”

“Might as well have.” Scott peels off his soaked hoodie – it’s long on him, but not completely dwarfing, which means it’s probably Isaac’s – and struggles out of his shirt. Derek grabs one of Erica’s many forgotten jackets from the back room and wraps it around him. “Thanks.”

“What happened to your security guards?” Derek asks.

Scott rolls his eyes. “That was just for the show. I don’t get mobbed on the streets, you know; I’m not _that_ famous.”

“Yet.”

“You’ve got that much faith in me?” Scott asks with a snort.

Derek shrugs. “I always have.”

Scott smiles faintly. “Yeah. Yeah, you always did.” He notices the drink on the counter. “What’s that?”

“New drink I’m trying out.” He picks it up and, after a moment’s hesitation, holds it out to Scott. “You wanna try?”

“ _Always_ ,” Scott exclaims, bounding forward with a grin, and for a moment things feel like they did before: just the two of them in a darkened bar; Scott finding something nice to say about every new drink Derek offers him, even the terrible ones; Derek trying to clean up so they can leave while Scott steals whatever’s nearby to scribble down lyrics. The bridge for “Toy Horse” was born along the length of Derek’s arm, while he laughed at the tickle of Sharpie on skin and Scott fussed at him to hold still. Then Scott sets the glass down with a dull _clink_ , and Derek comes back to the present. “You made a drink for my song,” Scott says, face blank with confusion.

“I made a drink for your entire _album_.”

“I made an entire album for _you_.” Derek blinks, blown back by the force in his voice. “You’ve always been my Nebraska,” Scott continues, more softly. “Derek, you had to know that.”

“It’s been two years,” Derek says. “I thought you would’ve found someone else. Moved on.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t,” Scott says. He pulls out his wallet and thumbs through it. “I kept it, that note you gave me when I left. It’s selfish of me to think you’d still mean it, after all this time, but.” He holds out the paper. “I hoped you did.”

Derek stares down at his own words, nearly worn through at the creases. “Derek, you’re it for me,” Scott says. “You’re always gonna be it for me. And if you don’t feel the same anymore, I respect that and I’ll leave you alone. But I had to try. I had to ask.”

_When you come back, I’ll be here waiting._ Derek swallows. “Why _now?_ ”

“I’m going to Europe next month,” Scott says. “Headlining. My first tour outside the States. I’m just going to keep getting further and further away from you, and I don’t want to be.”

“You’re asking me to come with you?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t expect you to uproot your life just for me. But I wanted to ask you to try.”

“You want me to _try_ to uproot my life for you?” Derek asks skeptically.

“No.” He shakes his head quickly. “No, I meant, try to be together. Even when we’re…not.”

“Scott,” he says slowly, and Scott crumples. Derek steps into his space, tilting his chin up to look at him. “I broke up with you because I didn’t want to hold you back. I can’t go everywhere you go. My life is here.” He curls his hand carefully over Scott’s cheek. “But I’ll always wait for you to come back.”

Scott’s hands clench around his arms. “You’ll wait for me?” he asks.

“Scott, I’d wait for you for the rest of my life if you asked,” Derek says, laughing softly.

Scott smiles. “How about a couple of months at a time, instead?”

“I think I can manage that.” He sighs, tipping his forehead against Scott’s. “You’re it for me, too.” Scott’s gaze flicks down to his lips, and Derek leans closer…

…And Scott sneezes in his face. “Oh my god.” Derek drops his head onto Scott’s shoulder, shaking with laughter. “Derek, I am so sorry.”

Derek pats his back feebly. “’s okay,” he gasps out. “We’ve done worse.” He wraps an arm around Scott’s waist, steering him towards the back door. “Let’s get you dry. I don’t want Europe pissed at me for getting Scott McCall sick.”

Scott groans as they trudge up the stairs. “That was a _moment_ ,” he says. “That was a definite _moment_ , and I…”

“There will be more moments,” Derek says. “We have plenty of time.” He shuts the door to his apartment and locks it. “You know,” he says conversationally, “They say the best way to get warm is sharing body heat. Works better without clothes.”

Scott grins, then leaps at him. Derek catches him automatically as Scott’s legs wind around his waist. “You always have the best ideas,” Scott says.

“Eh, you have your moments.”

Scott leans down and kisses Derek so gently that his legs buckle against the door. “Think you can manage getting us to the bed?” Scott asks with a laugh.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Well, that’s the idea.”

 

They don’t pick up right where they left off, because they left off on a pretty bad note. But they pick up, somewhere, somehow. It’s difficult, and it isn’t the same as before, and it isn’t just as good.

It’s better.

It’s Scott spending the next three days in Derek’s bed and the rest of the week following him from his apartment to the bar and back again – the regulars have hometown pride for Scott McCall, but they don’t swarm him, and they keep anyone else from finding out that he’s still around. It’s Scott grabbing his arm to scribble a verse across his skin, punctuating it with a kiss to the crook of his elbow. It’s the car that finally comes to take him away, and it’s the text message that he gets as soon as it rounds the corner: _i miss u already :((((_.

It’s late night emails with Scott’s manager, Allison, getting a passport, and flying to meet Scott in Europe. It’s touring Paris and Berlin, and watching Scott’s show from backstage with the roadies. It’s Scott turning around to look for him at the end of a song, lighting up with a smile when he catches his eye and launching into the next song with renewed vigor. It’s sweaty hugs after shows, bone-deep exhaustion and buzzing adrenaline. It’s flying back to his small-town life, tracking Scott through fan-filmed tour videos online and phone calls with increasingly ridiculous time zone differences.

It’s inside jokes with Allison, and sharing cat videos with Kira, Scott’s drummer, and texting in dumb song requests to Stiles at work (he always seems to know when it’s Derek, and calls him out on the air every single time). It’s Cora and Boyd helping him make a care package and sending it to the address Allison swears will get to Scott. It’s surprising Scott on Valentine’s Day in Chicago, and on October 3rd in Tokyo, and right before the ball drops on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. It’s Scott’s face, stunned and surprised and deliriously happy, every single time.

It’s his own face when Scott shows up out of the blue at _Riversticks_ in the middle of April.

It’s Lydia, Scott’s stylist, getting him fitted for suits worth thousands of dollars, and it’s clutching Scott’s hand on the red carpet and trying not to be blinded by the flashbulbs. It’s paparazzi photos of them together in LA, and it’s tabloid gossip of him cheating on Scott with Malia because they hugged in front of one of San Francisco’s giant hearts on her Instagram (the bassist, they call her, and conveniently forget that she’s also Derek’s cousin). It’s cheering for Scott as he climbs the stage to accept his first Grammy, and it’s Scott stumbling through his acceptance speech and spending half of his allotted time thanking Derek.

It’s taking more time to visit Cora in LA’s _Riversticks_ location, and it’s dropping by Scott’s studio with fish tacos. It’s getting bored out of his mind while Scott records, and listening to increasingly ridiculous road stories from Danny while Liam swears up and down that they’re true. It’s bringing Scott’s band to _Moira’s Threads_ , and Stiles tagging along to bicker with Isaac. It’s moving some of his belongings into Scott’s giant, empty house in LA, and it’s buying a house together back in their tiny little town. It’s helping Melissa McCall weed her garden and learning her fudge recipe and Scott’s favorite childhood cookies, and it’s going to Brooklyn for lunch with Laura that turns into a three-day visit full of entertainment (for Scott) and humiliation (for him).

It’s Scott, down on one knee, asking Derek to marry him.

Derek collapses onto the chaise lounge in _Moira’s Threads_ , covering his face with his hands as he laughs helplessly. He’d never really understood why anyone would need a chaise lounge for scarf shopping, but he appreciates its existence right now. There is currently an elaborate bouquet taking up half of _Riversticks_ ’ bar, celebrating his and Scott’s six-month engagement anniversary. Derek doesn’t think there’s such a thing as an engagement anniversary, but that hasn’t stopped Scott from sending him increasingly cheesy gifts to celebrate them anyway. “That man is going to be the death of me.”

“Huh?” Isaac asks, peering at him wide-eyed from the cashier.

“Have you seen the giant bouquet downstairs?” Derek says. “It’s ridiculous. Scott is ridiculous.” He sighs, draping an arm over the back of the chaise lounge. “My fiancé is ridiculous, and I can’t believe how much I love him.”

Isaac looks down, fiddling with a scarf’s fringe. “You’re okay with that?” he asks, voice weirdly neutral. “You want to spend the rest of your life with him?”

Derek smiles. He can’t imagine his life without Scott, not anymore. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

 

Six years to the day after Derek meets Scott McCall, he marries him.

It’s the best day of his life.

“Lydia went all out with this,” Cora says, whistling at Derek’s tuxedo. “Damn, big bro, you clean up good.”

“As opposed to the sad trash hobo I usually look like?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Hey, you’re the one who said it.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Allison pokes her head in. “We’re going to get started soon. Cora, we need you out in the hall now.” She smiles at Derek. “You look great, Derek.”

“Ten bucks says Scott cries,” Erica says, squeezing past Allison into the room.

“That’s like betting ten bucks that Derek breathes,” Boyd says. “And what took you so long?”

“Almost forgot the bowtie!” Erica waves a small strip of white cloth. “Lydia would’ve killed us if Derek came down the aisle without it.”

“Yeah, especially since you insisted on making it instead of letting her buy one,” Cora says. She hugs Derek tight. (“Lydia’s gonna kill you if you wrinkle anything!” Allison squawks.) “I’m really happy for you, Derek.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, throat itchy. Cora beams up at him, then follows Allison out to the hall. He turns to Erica. “Okay, put it on me.”

“What?” Erica glances at the bowtie in her hand, then quickly hands it to Boyd. “I don’t know how to tie this.”

Derek turns to Boyd, who shrugs. “I don’t know, either.”

“Everyone calm down, I am here,” Isaac says, barreling through the door. “Dude, Scott’s so excited. He was practically bouncing off the walls when I left. I mean, not literally, because Lydia would’ve killed him if he looked sweaty in his pictures, but figuratively. Bouncing on the inside.” He looks Derek up and down, holding a hand out to Boyd for the bowtie. “You look great, Derek.”

“Thanks, Isaac.” He tilts his head back as Isaac loops the bowtie around his collar and ties it with a few quick motions.

Isaac steps back slowly, hands still on the tie, and glances at Boyd and Erica for approval. He lets go carefully, dropping his hands away with a sigh. “Now you’re perfect,” he says, sounding a little sad. “Don’t undo that, okay? You won’t be able to recreate that as nicely, and then Lydia’ll get mad.”

“Okay,” Derek says. He holds out his arms, and all three crowd in for a hug. “Thanks for always being there for me, guys. You’ve always been good friends.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re getting all weepy,” Erica sniffles. She pulls a handkerchief out of her purse and dabs at her eyes. Next to her, Isaac looks close to tears.

Boyd squeezes Derek’s shoulder one last time and opens the door. “Time to go.”

The ceremony passes in a blur. All Derek can remember is staring into Scott’s eyes, awe-filled and bright with happy tears. He doesn’t remember anything past leaning in to kiss his husband for the first time. Derek presses their foreheads together, cheeks aching from smiling so hard as Scott beams back. He’s never felt so happy. He knows he’ll never feel this happy again.

He doesn’t remember the photos, or the reception, or anything past Scott taking his hand as they leave the park together. He doesn’t remember the sky darkening, but Scott drops his hand in shock as rain pours down on them.

Derek laughs at his stunned face. “Even Scott McCall can’t control the weather,” he says cheerfully, running ahead to the street corner.

“Oh, shut up,” Scott laughs as he jogs after him. The crosswalk light switches on, and Derek steps into the street. “Hey, wait for me!”

Derek turns around, strolling backwards across the street. “I’m _waiting_ ,” he sings. He reaches for his bowtie, slowly pulling the knot free until the ends hang on either side of his collar.

He never hears the screech of tires or Scott’s horrified scream. He never feels the crush of metal or the unforgiving concrete. He never sees Scott run towards him, nearly hit by the car himself as it speeds away.

All he sees is Scott’s face, dazed and in love and deliriously happy, and he thinks, _I love him so much_.

 

* * *

 

The last thing Scott sees is Derek’s face, smiling softly and filled with love. They tell him that he screamed, that he wouldn’t stop screaming, that they found him kneeling over Derek in a pool of blood, but he doesn’t remember any of that. He doesn’t remember anything beyond the gentle curve of Derek’s lips, the mirth in his eyes.

Jackson stands just outside the hospital doors, alternating between talking with the police and shouting into cellphone. He looks every bit the professional attorney, except for the soaked tuxedo and wilting boutonniere still pinned to his lapel. “We have witnesses,” he tells Scott. “We don’t know the license plate, but we know it was a silver Viper with black stripes. They’re not going to get away with this.”

It doesn’t matter. It won’t change what’s already happened. Scott doesn’t remember anything after Derek turned around, but he knows that he’s gone. He’s…Derek is…

Something warm presses into his hands, and he stares numbly at a cup of coffee from the vending machine. Allison sinks into the seat next to Scott, Stiles’ arm wrapped tightly around him on the other side. “They don’t have any new information for us,” she says carefully. “But-”

“He’s gone,” Scott says tonelessly. He doesn’t remember, but he _knows_. “I felt it. I felt him…”

“We don’t know for sure, yet,” Stiles says.

Scott knows. He’d stopped breathing in his arms, his heart had stopped, he’d _felt_ it. He drags his eyes over the bloodstains on Stiles’ shirtsleeves from pulling Scott to his feet and into his car to follow the ambulance. Allison’s dress is a patchwork of smears from holding him close in the backseat and swallowing down her own shock. He sets the cup down on the armrest. “I can’t.”

Allison stands as Scott does, her satin heels sliding on the linoleum. “Scott?”

“I have to…” he says. “I just have to go.”

“Okay,” Allison nods quickly. “I’ll call Ethan to-”

“No!” Stiles flinches, and Allison’s mouth snaps shut, but the hospital staff don’t bat an eye. He lowers his voice. “No,” he repeats. “I won’t leave the hospital, I just have to…I can’t be here right now. I have to go.” He stresses, “ _Alone_.”

Allison nods gently, lips pressed together. “Okay,” she says. She hesitates, as if to say something else, but settles on, “We understand.”

Stiles jumps to his feet. “Take my phone,” he says, tucking it into Scott’s jacket pocket. “We’ll call you as soon as there’s news, okay?”

Scott nods, the fight sinking out of him. “Thank you,” he says hoarsely, then spins on his heel and leaves.

He doesn’t look where his feet lead him, so it’s a miracle that he ends up at the elevators. The doors slide shut behind him and slowly begin their descent. Scott leans his head back against the cool walls. “I can’t,” he says blankly. “He promised…” He stares at the numbers slowly ticking down on the screen. “I have to get him back. I have to…” He drops his head into his hands, tears stinging his eyes shut, and then the doors ding open.

“There you are!” Erica yells, crowding inside with Boyd and Isaac. “Did you mean it?”

Scott blinks confusedly. The doors slide shut, and the elevator continues its descent. “What?”

“What you just said,” Erica says. “Did you mean it?”

He stares at her, even more lost than before. “How did you even hear that?”

“Answer the question, Scott,” Boyd says. Isaac nods behind him, shifting the gig bag inexplicably slung over his shoulder.

Scott shakes his head. “I – what are you talking about?” he says. “It doesn’t matter. He’s…” He presses his lips together. “It doesn’t matter how much I want to get him back. That’s not how it works.”

“What if it could?” Isaac asks. “What if you could…” He glances at Erica, “What if you could _try_.”

“There’s a way?” Scott straightens against the wall. “How? What do I do?”

They glance at each other. “It won’t be easy,” Boyd says.

“I don’t care,” Scott says, shaking his head frantically. “If there’s a way to get Derek back, I’ll do it.”

“No matter what?” Erica asks.

“No matter what,” he repeats. He pauses. “Do I have to kill someone else to take his place?”

“What?” Isaac scoffs. “No, that’s crazy.”

“Oh, okay.” Scott nods. “Then I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?” Boyd asks.

Scott sets his jaw. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he says, and then hits the ceiling as the elevator snaps into free-fall.

Boyd helps him back to his feet. They all seem completely unaffected by the sudden speed. “You’re going to need this,” Erica says, thrusting a small takeout container into his hands.

He looks down. “Cake?” he says faintly. “Why do I need my own wedding cake?”

“For the guard dog. Hellhound, technically.”

He blinks. “ _Hellhound?_ ”

“Getting second thoughts?” Erica asks.

“No, of course not,” Scott says. “Where exactly am I going, though?”

“The Underworld,” they say in unison.

“Oh,” Scott says faintly. He nods. “Okay, so, cake for the hellhound guard dog. What else to I need to do?”

“You’re really okay with this,” Boyd says wonderingly. He turns Scott’s wrists over, inspecting the cufflinks that Braeden had given him as a wedding present. “Good, you still have them. Use these as payment for the ferryman. One to get there, one for the return trip.”

Scott nods and turns to Isaac, who hands over the gig bag. “This is for Hades.”

He straps the bag over his shoulders. “I’m giving Hades my _guitar?_ ”

“Oh, no, you hang on to that,” Isaac says. “You have to convince the king of the dead to let Derek go. Your music is your only chance.”

“Oh.” He lets out a shaky breath. “So this is what you meant by _try_ , huh?”

Erica pats his arm. “You’re the best musician I know,” she says. “And I’ve heard Apollo himself play. But when you perform, Scott…” She smiles. “You really are something else.”

The elevator slows to a stop. “Cake for the guard dog,” Scott says. “Cufflinks for the ferry. And…song…for Hades.” They nod in unison. The doors ding open, and Scott blinks. “Uh, guys? This is a parking garage.”

Isaac pats his chest, jabbing Stiles’ phone into his ribs. “Are you sure?”

Scott looks back to see a large wrought iron gate on the far side of the garage. “Oh. How did I miss that…” He shakes his head and steps through the open doors, then turns. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this, and I’m…I’m so grateful.” They dip their heads, smiling softly, and the doors slide shut.

Scott hefts his gig bag. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s do this.” The gates creak open, and he heads into the Underworld.

 

Ominous growls echo from the tunnel as Scott approaches. He carefully opens the takeout container, and nearly falls over as a sudden gust blows him back. He stumbles, shaking his head, and finds himself face-to-face with the guard dog of the Underworld.

Well, face-to-face isn’t exactly the right term. He cranes his head back to meet all six of the hellhound’s eyes. “Hello,” Scott says. “I have something for you.”

The hellhound leans back at Scott’s voice, sitting down hard and tilting its heads at him curiously. It doesn’t seem ready to attack him, so he swallows and keeps talking. “I, uh, I hope you like cake? It’s vanilla, which is kinda boring for some people, but I dunno, _I_ like vanilla, and it’s Derek’s favorite-” His throat closes. The hellhound drops to its belly, scooting closer as its serpent tail swishes back and forth.

“It _was_ Derek’s favorite,” Scott says thickly. “You met him, didn’t you? I bet he likes you. He loves dogs, the bigger, the better.” He laughs. “You know, it was actually this huge sticking point with him and Stiles when they first met, because Stiles is a cat person, and they’d always try to drag me into their arguments, but…” He trails off as hot breath puffs across his face, and then a giant tongue licks his face. Literally his entire face. Scott tries not to sputter as the two other tongues lick him. He wipes the drool from his eyes and reaches for the cake in the container, already sliced into three neat pieces. “Uh, I can only hand out one at a time, so you’ll have to take turns.” He feeds each head carefully, and almost falls over again when they snuffle happily at him. “Sorry, that’s all I have,” he says, patting the middle nose. “Would it be all right with you if…well, I need to talk to your master, you see, so may I-”

The hellhound leaps over him and noses his back, knocking him forward. “Oh, okay, it’s that way?” he asks, craning his head back as the hellhound herds him further into the tunnel. “Thank you for this. I really appreciate it.” The hellhound nudges him one last time, then barks encouragingly before turning back to the gates. “Thank you!” Scott calls, and keeps walking until the tunnel opens up to a riverbank.

A boat rocks gently at the water’s edge, and the hooded figure inside raises its head as he approaches. “Hello,” Scott says. He waves a little, then realizes how stupid he must look. He jams his hand into his pocket. “I’m here to talk to your…well, I’d like to go across the river, please. I have payment,” he adds quickly. He unpins the cufflink from one sleeve and hands it over. The ferryman’s head dips once and steps back to let him into the boat.

“Thank you,” Scott says as they row silently across the river. “I really appreciate this, I…” He sighs, staring down at his hands. “I know it isn’t fair. It’s selfish, what I’m doing. But I have a chance, you know? I’m actually here, and I have a chance, and I just…” He swallows past the lump in his throat, trying to blink the sting out of his eyes. “If there’s a chance I can get him back, I have to try. I have to ask. I can’t _not_.”

A cold hand rests on his shoulder and helps him out of the boat. “Sorry,” he says. “You probably hear that sort of thing all the time.” He clears his throat. “Thank you, again. I’m very…thank you.” The ferryman raises a hand and points at the shadows beyond the bank, and Scott nods before continuing on.

The shadows melt away as he walks closer, drawing back like curtains to reveal two dark thrones and even darker figures sitting upon them. Scott opens his mouth to speak, but the taller figure holds up a hand, gesturing at the gig bag at his back. He swallows, nods, and slowly pulls out his guitar, the one he’d played when he’d seen Derek for the first time. He drops the strap over his head, takes a deep breath, and freezes when a white strip of cloth tied to the headstock catches his eye.

It’s Derek’s bowtie, the one he’d untied right before…it’s still pristine, impossibly white, almost glowing in the dark shades of the Underworld. Scott touches it gently, eyes sliding shut, and begins to play.

He remembers the first time he’d seen Derek, how the bored-looking bartender had straightened suddenly, head tilting curiously as bright, multicolored eyes pierced straight into Scott’s soul. He remembers the salt of fish tacos from Derek’s hands and sweet watermelon smoothies from his lips. He remembers the clink of shot glasses and the screech of microphones, brazen guffaws and soft, secret sighs. He remembers gentle fingers tracing his jaw in farewell and then again in welcome, lost years written in the lines of hands and mouths and those bright, brilliant eyes. He remembers kisses like coming home, kisses like the end of the world, kisses like an anchor settled safe in his chest. He remembers Derek. He remembers _Derek_. And as the last wail of his guitar fades, as he takes slow breaths through a throat worn raw, he opens his eyes to see the dark figures staring at him, as still as the grave.

A soft cry echoes through the room. Then another, and another, and the Queen of the Underworld bows forward on her throne as her body wracks with sobs. Hades exhales, slowly as a death rattle, and glistening tears trail down his cheeks. “For what you have done to my beloved,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper, hand curling gently over his queen’s, “I allow you to bring back yours.”

He lowers his head, and Scott’s pinned to the spot, flayed open to his very core as he meets eyes that shine all at once with lush green meadows, clear blue skies, warm brown earth, and cold, gray death. “You will turn around and go back the way you came,” Hades says. “Your beloved will follow you. You must not look back, not even once, not until you have both left this realm. Do you understand?” Scott nods. “Now go.”

Scott spins around, clutching his guitar tight. He can’t hear anything, no breaths or footsteps but his own, but – Hades said – he has to trust him. He walks back to the riverbank, neck tight and shoulders hunched, and climbs into the boat, handing over his last cufflink before the ferryman pushes away from the shore. He doesn’t dare speak, not even to thank the ferryman, and he stumbles out of the boat on the other side, all but running for the tunnel to the gates.

The hellhound is silent, hidden somewhere in one of the branching paths that Scott can’t turn his head to see. The gates swing open silently for him, and he carefully steps through. He sways in place as his vision darkens, and then the parking garage appears in front of him.

He sighs in relief. He made it back, they’re back, he’s back and Derek’s back and they’re okay, now. He starts to smile, starts to turn back to take Derek’s hand –

– but he can’t hear anything, he still can’t hear a thing but his own breathing, even in the garage, and he didn’t hear the gates swing shut. He doesn’t even know if – is Derek even – Scott locks his shoulders forward and takes another step. And another. And another. He drags his feet across the garage, biting his lip as blood pools in his mouth. He’s practically at the elevators, he must be out of the Underworld by now, but he doesn’t…he can’t…

“Scott?”

He freezes, breath stilling in his lungs. He could’ve sworn he’d heard – “Scott?” the voice repeats, quiet, tremulous, soft as a whisper, and it sounds like, it sounds like, “Scott, it’s me. I’m – can you hear me? Scott, please,” Derek’s voice breaks, ragged breaths drawing through the cracks. “Scott, please look at me.”

Scott’s limbs go slack. The guitar crashes to the floor, and his knees follow as he bows forward on the unforgiving concrete. “I can’t,” he gasps, body wracking with sobs. “I can’t. If I turn around, you’ll-”

He hears the squeak of shoes on a smooth floor, and rustling clothes, and then warm hands cup his face, tilting his chin up. Scott squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t – if he does – “It’s okay, Scott,” Derek says. He presses their foreheads together, and hot breath puffs across Scott’s face. “I’m here. I promise, I’m here. You brought me back, you – Scott, please _look at me_.”

Stinging tears drop onto his cheeks, and the desperation in his voice shocks Scott’s eyes into snapping open. Bright, multicolored eyes stare back at him, anxious and fearful and just barely daring to hope, and – “ _Derek_.” Scott lunges forward, clutching Derek tight to his chest and burying his face in the crook of his neck. “Derek. Oh, god. Derek. I-” His throat closes, and he can’t manage anything beyond wrapping his arm tight around Derek’s chest – he can feel his heart beat, he can feel him _breathe_ – as he cries.

“I’m here,” Derek murmurs, holding him tight. “Scott, I’m – you came back for me.”

He can’t help but laugh at the wonder in Derek’s voice. “I’ll always come back for you,” he says. He pulls back to look at Derek, running his hands carefully along his face. “As long as you wait for me, I’ll come back for you, okay? Doesn’t matter what happens, I’ll find a way. I promise.”

Derek sighs. “You’re amazing, Scott McCall.” He pulls Scott to his feet and towards the elevator. “I promise I’m still here, okay? I just have to go right now, but I’m back, I swear.”

“Wait, what?” Derek backs into the elevator, their joined hands stretching across the doorway. “Where – I’ll go with you.”

Derek tugs him closer and kisses him across the threshold. “You’ve already done so much for me,” he says. “You got me _out_ of there. You-” He drops his head, laughing helplessly. “You’ve done more than I could ever ask. I can do this one part on my own.”

His hands start to slip away, and Scott clutches tighter. “Don’t leave me,” he pleads.

“I’m not leaving,” Derek says. “I’ll never leave you again. I’m-” He kisses Scott again. “I need you to wait for me, okay? Just for a little. Wait for me to come back.” Scott nods, not trusting himself to speak, and lets him go. Derek stares at him as he backs into the elevator, smiling softly and filled with love. “I love you so much,” he says, and the doors snap shut.

A shrill beep cuts through the air, and Scott jerks back, fumbling Stiles’ phone out of his jacket pocket. When he looks up, he finds himself staring at the inside of a empty elevator, completely alone in the silent garage.

No, not alone. Stiles hurries towards him, phone in hand. “Scott,” he says, voice shaking. “I came as fast as I could. I…”

He nods tiredly. None of it was real, he just, he must have…Derek is… “Tell me.”

“He’s awake.”

His head shoots up. “What?”

“Derek’s awake,” Stiles repeats, grinning like mad. He trips as he just barely avoids trampling Scott’s guitar. “He’s awake! Don’t ask me how, I didn’t understand a thing the doctors said but they mentioned the word ‘miracle’ a lot, but – Scott, he’s awake. Derek’s awake.”

“He came back,” Scott breathes.

“Yeah, he did,” Stiles says. His voice wobbles. “See? You just had to wait a little, and he’d come back to you.”

Scott turns at the clatter of heels on concrete and watches Allison rush up to them. “Scott!” she gasps, then frowns at the guitar by their feet. “Why’s there a…” She shakes her head, and her smile returns in full force. “Scott, come on, we have to go right now.”

His heart seizes. “Why? What happened? Did-”

“God, no, sorry, it’s okay!” Allison says quickly. She tugs Scott into the elevator, and Stiles picks up the guitar and follows them. “Derek’s fine! He’s actually doing _really_ well; the doctors are thrilled. I just came to get you because – well, he’s awake, and he’s lucid, and he’s doing so well that the doctors are allowing him a visitor. Just one, for now, since he’s still early in recovery, but.” The elevators ding open, and she leads him down the hall (Stiles gets weird looks over the guitar). “He’s been asking for you ever since he woke up.”

They stop in front of a hospital room. “I can go in?” Scott asks, hand hovering over the doorknob. “I can see him?”

Allison nods encouragingly. “The doctor’ll come to get you when it’s time to go. We’ll be just down the hall.” She hugs him tight, then herds Stiles down the hall and snatches the guitar away from him.

Scott takes a deep breath and opens the door. Derek blinks his eyes open as he walks slowly to the bed and touches his hand with shaking fingers. “ _Derek_.”

Derek smiles at him through blurry eyes and cracked lips. “Sorry I made you wait.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh my god, Scott, if we miss this flight, Allison is going to _kill_ you.”

“Oh, just me?” Scott says, smirking at Derek as he wanders into the den. “Dude, I can’t find my scarf. You know I can’t leave without my scarf.”

“And that’s why it’s just you,” Derek says. He crosses his arms as Scott wanders out of the den and into the guest bathroom. “You know we’re going to LA, right? You don’t need a scarf in LA.”

“It’s part of my _‘image_ ,’” Scott says, throwing quotation marks over his head. Derek probably can’t see from his annoyed stance by the front door, but he’ll get the idea. “But seriously, I feel weird leaving town without that scarf. You gave it to me the first time I left, you know?”

“Scott McCall, Sentimental Diva,” Derek sighs. “We really can’t miss this flight. You’ve already postponed flying out three times.”

Scott stomps out of the bathroom to gape at him. “My husband got hit by a _car_. I think I’m allowed to freak out and not want to leave him for a while after that!”

Derek ducks his head with a pleased smile the way he always does when Scott calls him his husband. “It’s been a pretty long while, though,” he says. “You need to get started on your life again.”

Scott leans up and kisses him. “I already did,” he says softly. “And besides, it’s not like I spent the whole time weeping at your bedside.” Derek rolls his eyes. “I did write an album, you know. Multiple albums’ worth of songs, even.”

“Multiple albums’ worth of _crap_. You notice how I stopped complimenting them once I came off the painkillers.”

“Kira liked them!”

“No, she didn’t,” Derek says, smirking. “I thought she was gonna cry when I talked to her. Liam _actually_ cried.”

Scott huffs. “Well, they liked the ones I sent them last month,” he says. “Malia said she loves the bassline on ‘Tattoo.’”

Derek smiles down at the rings circling Scott’s arm to match the ones on their fingers. “Yeah, I like that one.” He picks up his carry-on. “You ready to go and record them already?”

“Not until I find my scarf.” He laughs at Derek’s long-suffering sigh and heads for the bedroom. “Besides, you’ll need it to cover up all those hickies on your neck.”

There’s a pause, and Scott pokes his head into the hall to see Derek trying to look down at his own neck. “I don’t have any hickies on my neck.”

“Not with that attitude you won’t,” Scott says, waggling his eyebrows.

Derek rolls his eyes again and opens the door. “I’m gonna take the bags down to the car,” he calls. “And when I get back, we’re leaving whether you found your special scarf or not.”

“Wait!” Scott yells, running into the hall, but Derek’s already stopped in the doorway by the time he gets there. He leans up for a kiss, running his hands carefully along Derek’s face. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” Derek says. “I’ll be right back, I promise.” Scott nods, and Derek picks up the bags, pulling the door shut behind him. “Okay,” Scott says, letting out a breath. “He’s coming right back, he’ll be right back. Okay. So, scarf. Where the _hell_ did it go?”

He’s rooting through Derek’s sock drawer when the door bangs open. “All right,” he calls, heading back out into the hallway. “Fine, I can’t find it, let’s just-” He pauses when he comes face-to-face with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac instead of his husband. “-go?”

“Relax, we’re not here to drop you into the Underworld again,” Erica says, strolling into the living room and dropping onto the couch. “Done enough of that for this lifetime.”

“Uh, hi,” Scott says. “I didn’t know you were coming by – I mean, me and Derek were actually on our way-”

“To LA, yeah,” Boyd says. “We just came by to give you this.”

“Hey!” Scott gapes at the infinity scarf that Boyd drops into his hands. “Dude, I thought I lost this!”

“Yeah, no, I stole it,” Isaac says, shrugging unashamedly. He jerks his head at Erica and Boyd. “They said it needed some adjustments.”

He peers closer at the scarf, eyebrows shooting up when he notices the bright white threads woven into the colors. “They’re,” he says, swallows, and tries again. “These are Derek’s, aren’t they.”

Erica nods. “His came undone, you know. Can’t reattach what’s already cut, so we needed to find it a new home.” She fiddles with a lock of her hair. “It, uh, came at a price.”

Scott nods, fingers curling carefully around the scarf. “It’s shorter, now.”

“To lengthen Derek’s life, yours had to be shortened,” Boyd says. He spreads his hands. “You can’t cheat death.”

“But,” Scott says. The three glance at each other nervously. “But if our threads are woven together like this, it means that when one comes undone, the other has to, too, right? When Derek…I’ll…we’ll…”

“You’ll be together,” Isaac says. He nods at the seamless infinity scarf. “When that comes undone, it’ll be together.”

He lets out a breath. “Okay,” he says, smiling. “Okay, good.”

“Really? That’s it?” Erica says skeptically. “So if you both died tomorrow, you’d be okay with that?”

“We’ll be together,” Scott says. “After everything that’s happened, that’s all that matters to me.”

“Jeez, you send a guy to the Underworld _once_ and he comes out a fatalistic sap,” Isaac says. “It’s not that much shorter; you’re all being so dramatic.”

“Yeah, you would know,” Boyd retorts. “And it’s time for _you_ to get going before you miss your flight.”

“Wait!” Scott calls as Boyd opens the door. “Thank you. For everything. You didn’t have to help me, but you did, and…thank you.”

“Hey, all we did was show you the door,” Isaac says. “You did everything else.”

“Still,” Scott says. “Thank you.”

Boyd smiles. “Don’t mention it.”

Erica skips out the door. “I love the album, by the way!”

“Yeah, the hidden track makes me cry every time!” Isaac calls, and then Boyd pulls the door shut with a last wave.

“Hidden track?” Scott repeats, and then his phone beeps with a text from Danny about a recording he just found in one of his old emails, why didn’t Scott tell him about it, they’re gonna talk when Scott gets here and Danny stops crying. “What the hell?”

He’s still squinting at his phone and trying to make sense of Danny’s rambling text when Derek opens the front door. “Oh, hey, you found it! Ready to go?”

Scott looks up, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Yup,” he says, and leans up on his toes to loop the scarf around Derek’s neck. “It looks good on you.”

Derek tilts his head down for a kiss, but Scott grabs his hand and tugs him out the door instead. “I was promised hickies,” Derek complains.

“Hey, if we don’t get going now, we’re gonna miss our flight,” Scott says casually. He reaches for the car door, but finds himself pressed against it instead as Derek captures his lips in a slow, deep kiss.

“I think we’ve got some time,” Derek says.

Scott smiles and pulls him in closer. “Yeah. Yeah, we do.”

 

* * *

 

_“Dude. You saw the Scott McCall Tribute Concert last night, right?”_

_“Yeah. I – man. I cried the whole time.”_

_“As soon as I saw that Stilinski was hosting it, I started crying. I mean, that’s Stiles from_ Stiles _, you know?”_

_“I’m glad they left that song out. It just…that wouldn’t been too painful, you know?”_

_“Kali singing Tattoo (Open Wound), though, shit.”_

_“Dude, but for real. You remember how Derek, Scott’s husband, always used to come onstage and hug him at the end of the encore? Or, like, if he wasn’t there someone always brought a phone out so Scott could see him before he left the stage? That’s all I could think of when J.B. came out and hugged Kali at the end.”_

_“Oh my god, me too. I was already crying over that, and then J.B. sang Nebraska, and, just…”_

_“Thank god they had Jordan Parrish do REvolve. Like, I needed to just not cry for a little bit.”_

_“But then you saw him hug Stiles afterwards! Fuck, every time I saw Stiles I started crying again. He was barely holding it together the entire night.”_

_“When they brought out his original band for D_ _♭_ _at the end, though. My cousin worked the show; she said Stiles was crying backstage for the entire song.”_

_“And when Liam just_ collapsed _after he finished singing. That broke my heart, man. Fuck.”_

_“I couldn’t believe it when I found out, you know? Like, he was so young. I thought there had to be a mistake.”_

_“Wasn’t even forty. But, you know, he contributed so much to music, even in that short time. He was a legend.”_

_“He_ is _a legend. Hey. To Scott McCall, guys. The legend.”_

_“And to Derek Hale, the man who made him that legend.”_

_“To Derek and Scott.”_

_“Derek and Scott.”_


End file.
